He is picking his ruby rose.
He is tearing off its thorns and trimming its stem.
He is gathering a heavenly bouquet.
He is sniffing its sweet scent.
He is placing it on his own table.
He is admiring it with his own delighting eye.
His home is glorified with the bouquet He chose, picked, groomed, and arranged by hand.
His joy and pleasure is magnified by the beauty He arranged and adorned His own home with.
Yet in His peculiar home,
Roses never die.
Life flows so freely in His vase,
Because His water is that of which one drop,
Is eternally enough.