Rose of Romance

Precious jewels; fragile hearts used as if toys, extracted of true self-worth; calloused and convinced that life won’t get any better. Their image of love distorted beyond recognition, the result of being payed to “love”. Flirting with life, laughing to fill the spacious longing inside.

Bent over, wearing the signature of time — lines of laughter and lines of worry. So called “glory days” are over, they have plunged into the denouement of their lives, the climax long left behind; Feeling almost guilty for not staying young, feeling like a forgotten burden on younger one’s shoulders.

Her hand was wrapped around a rose, still damp from its vase at the florist’s. There wasn’t much traffic on the highway that night, but a lonely prostitute stood there, the focus of the three women briskly heading towards her, a mother, a daughter, and a friend. Their pace suddenly slowed as a truck stopped in front of the prostitute; she walked up to the window and talked to the driver, making the threesome tense with hope that she wouldn’t get in. They had something lovely to give her — a rose that they had just purchased along with six others.

A moment passed, and the woman opened the door of the large cargo-truck, and got in, not knowing what unexpected gift she might have received — a gift of love, and not the kind that she was about to give and receive, but the kind that doesn’t love for anything in return.

On a sunny afternoon, an elderly woman was interestingly stopped on the street by three women. They had something lovely to give her — a rose purchased the night before, along with six others. Now there were only three left. Three had been given to three prostitutes, all taken aback, misty eyes reflecting the streetlights.

Now this woman in particular, not entirely understanding, accepted the rose given to her, marveling that she was important enough to receive it, smiling at the thought that not only these three, but Someone else was very, very interested in her being loved and cherished.

A rose, forever the symbol of love and romance, though just a rose, was a tool crafted to let those that have forgotten know how treasured, loved, and beautiful they are.

Isn’t it amazing how this love could show itself through anything on earth? It is simply so powerful that nothing can restrain it.

A hand, a beautiful, scarred hand holds this rose of romance, and this hand alone has the power to restore the broken hearts.

Used, and trampled, paid to love; the roses were given to prostitutes to let them know that in spite of all this, that they are loved with unending, never-changing love, that they are precious, that Someone gave His life to love them.

Creased and weak, glory days over; the roses were given to old women to let them know that no matter how many lovers they may have had in their long lives, there never was one who loved them quite as much as this One; that they are cherished and beautiful.

This One who holds the rose of romance, He is Jesus.

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