Flowering Freedom

Do daffodils love God more so than I,
locked as they are into obedience,
their golden trumpets blaring to the sky,
their lovely petals drenched in innocence?

Does God enjoy the dainty dittany
that bows its blossoming buds in pure respect,
as much as my prayed cadenced litany,
as each adores our common architect?

Does He love more than me the butterfly flower,
its golden-red leaves faithful unto death,
a fragrant corolla crowned with worshiping power,
while I awry sin nigh to my last breath?

Why can't the little creeping St. John's wort
sneak humbly, gently into heaven's court,
or large and golden St. John's chamomile
make brighter old St. Peter's generous smile?

Yet coneflowers can't compare in innocence
to my soul freed from disobedience;
the unfree rose knows no eternity,
while I win heaven with one faithed deed done free.

Such power to grant so great a gift to me,
O freedom, seems a mighty mystery;
could it be when God put His spark in me,
the major part was His own liberty?

Why can I raise my eyes to heaven's gate,
while birds of paradise just vegetate?
O freedom, why must I give God His due?
His merciful love is mightier than you.

                         -- by Pete Voelz    2000