The lesser and greater lights, 

and all living things thrive, cradled in your robes. 

But not I. 

Hidden in the 

pierced place 

of the 

palm of Your hands, 

my soul takes rest and my spirit sparks upward into everlasting love. How can I keep saying thank you as 

the lily? Her sun-scrubbed face upturned into streaming light sings, 

“Praise be, praise be, praise be…” until she bows low with withering bloom and whispers as she fades to the 

earth, “All glory be, all glory be.” The soil receives her white, velvet shell and awaits a newly planted seed that dies

and breaks open to rebirth.

This 

wonderful cycle teems with myriads of moving molecules, and bursts with 

shining, blinding inertia. The lily knows nothing of the blood drops of grace that cover the hidden hollow in 

the pierced place of Your palm–still

she shouts out wondrous praise every second of her life. Why are you silent my soul? Consider the lily.

Bonnie Saul Wilks