ezer.digital

For every bud on earth and every love that grows,
A love story unfolds, that is not often told –
A father raising his daughter, a bloom in his dear care,
Her petals are unfolding in the warmth of his close stare.

She lifts her face toward the sky,
So radiant, delicate and pure –
Held aloft in her father’s hand,
Until the time is sure.

For the flower is not given lightly,
Not plucked in haste nor thrown to breeze,
It is held until a man stands tall,
A man, not a boy, who bows his knees.

The father meets his steady gaze,
Weighs the strength his soul displays,
And when fulfilled the rightful days,
In his palm, the flower pure and whole is gently placed.

But the flower tells another story,
Of how she has been held before.
Some are raised in love and sunlight,
While others battered by the storm.

Some fathers crush the bloom in time,
Too harsh, too cold, too blind to see,
Some never let their daughters bloom,
Afraid to one day set them free.

For there are also those who greedily take,
Seizing what was never their own,
Unraised boys, unshaped men,
Grasping at what time has yet to mold.

And some daughters, unaware of their worth,
Tear at their petals in a restless game —
“Does he love me? Does he not?”
Forgetting that Father calls them by name.

Oh, how the world deceives their name!
How it whispers cruel lies!
When some hands steal the flower’s beauty,
Some trample it where it lies.

A child so precious to her father,
Born of him, her soul his own,
His image in her every trait,
His heart in every bone.

Such is the Father of us all,
Holding each soul with love divine,
He lifts us high, so tenderly,
Calling us all “Beloved, Mine.”

But somewhere along the way,
We forgot the hands that hold,
The petals fall, the colours fade,
The lies so strong, the hearts so torn.

We settle for the lesser love,
For stolen glances, empty words,
For men who never learned to cherish,
For boys who never learned to wait.

Oh! how the sons are lost as well,
Taught how to harden, but not to weep,
To build their walls, to shut their hearts,
To love, but never love too deep.

How then shall they ever raise their daughters,
When love was never known?
How then shall they pass down gentleness,
When the seeds were never sown?

But then – He came.
A Man who was, and yet more than them all,
Who did not steal, nor did He crush,
He plucked no flower before its time,
Laid down Himself, in love sublime.

He stood against the selfish hands,
He fought for broken and the lost,
He saw the flower’s worth within,
Bore all its pain and cost.

Not for what she had already done,
Not for the beauty still intact,
But for the very truth of her –
For who she was, and Whom she lacked.

He looked upon the Father’s face,
Eye to eye, without a stain,
And in His love, He made her whole,
Restored her petals once again.

For love is not in taking,
But waiting, standing true,
Meeting the Father’s gaze as one,
Proving oneself through and through.

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Now, daughter lift your righteous gaze,
No longer cast to dust and stone,
For in the eyes of your loving Creator,
You see yourself – cherished and known.

No longer plucked, no longer torn,
No longer lost in false embrace,
But in His gaze, you see yourself –
The apple of His eye, your place.

The flower is not for fleeting hands,
Nor for the grasp of careless touch,
But for the One who truly stands,
And loves the Father’s own as much.

And when the Father lifts you high,
Not to be stolen, nor to be sold,
But to be given in perfect time,
To the One who claims you as His own.