ACROSS THE MILES

FLOWERS
Author unknown



For the Flowers have the Gift of Language

Speak, flowers, speak! Why do you say nothing?

The flowers have the gift of language.

In the meadow they speak of freedom,

Creating patterns wild and free as no gardener could match.

In the forest they nestle, snug carpets under the roof of Leaf and branch, making a rug of such softness.

At end tip of branches they cling briefly Before bursting into fruit sweet to taste.

Flowers, can you not speak joy to our sadness? And hope to our fear?

Can you not say how it is with you That you color the darkest corner?

The flowers have the gift of language.

At the occasion of birth they are buds before bursting.

At the ceremony of love they unite two lovers in beauty.

At the occasion of death, they remind us how lovely is life.

Oh, would that you had voice,
Silent messengers of hope.

Would that you could tell us how you feel, Arrayed in such beauty.

The flowers have the gift of language.

In the dark depths of a death camp They speak the light of life.

In the face of cruelty They speak of courage.

In the experience of ugliness They bespeak the persistence of beauty.

Speak, messengers, speak!

For we would hear your message.

Speak, messengers, speak!

For we need to hear what you would say.

For the flowers have the gift of language:

They transport the human voice on winds of beauty;