If all God’s blooms were hollyhocks,
How boring gardens would be.
We need the rose and buttercup,
The mum and apple tree.
A pansy glorifies the shade,
A marigold the sun.
We need the glads and daffodils
To make the garden fun.
If each of us were asters blue,
There’d be no vim at all.
We need daisies in the world,
Tall iris and violets small.
Whatever flower you may be
Enjoy life as you go.
Lift your head, stretch your stem,
And let your blossom show.
However much conditions may improve,
Good odds remain
That I will easily adjust to them
And still complain.
I needn’t roam
without compass or map
to guide me home,
for in scripture I
find a Liahona
to touch my mind
and help me understand
the way to reach
God’s promised land.
Someday I will be letters on a sheet
That you have found and you will print me in
Along the numbered line. As you begin
To note the land, the burial, feel the beat
Of my heart’s blood still in you, warm and sweet
From knowing, love, that you are mine—my kin.
I seldom looked so far that I could win
Your image from the future; could we meet
Beside my humble name upon this page?
For it can speak of more than place or year;
Oh, let it be a cord to draw you near
And tie us to each other. Mine to give—
A slender ribbon record—birth and age;
For you, the Spirit’s whisper that I live.
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