Roses, Thorns, and Angels with Horns.

It's easy to call that fully open and delicate rose beautiful when you haven't been cut by its thorns. 

That transparent sky is a beauty too until it blackens, swells and mourns. 

Those galaxies are fascinating to examine with your naked eye.

Lovely to behold but never to touch. If you could stretch so far, you'd die. 

The chaos raging in those galaxies would rip all of your breath out of your chest. 

How lovely the wine! But not the grape that has been stomped and pressed. 

Every beautiful beholding has come through an immeasurably great price. 

The salvation of a human soul in exchange for a Holy God's life. 

To experience the freedom of forgiveness like a flood. 

To realize those redeeming waters that wash you consist of innocent Blood. 

It's easy to call that fully open and delicate rose beautiful when you haven't been cut by its thorns. 

It's easy to believe in angels, but hard to believe in the ones that grew horns. 

You call my mind beautiful. Consider that it has been pricked and that it bleeds. 

You see my great strengths. Consider that I have great needs. 

You see this humble man and great King and you desire to be like Him.

Just don't forget He left His Kingdom to die and become sin. 

You marvel at the ocean and its unsearchable depth.

Just don't forget that those waters fill cavities on this earth where bottoms can't be met. 

You're in awe of the stars as they dance and burn for you. 

Just don't forget the chaos, the violence and fury they exist through. 

It's easy to call that fully open and delicate rose beautiful when you haven't been cut by its thorns. 

How desirable is a covenant, but who sees the turmoil to fight for oaths that have been sworn?

You see His glory in my life. You see power and you see light. 

Don't be fooled to believe such things come without a violent, private fight. 

To everything there is a season and to every season there is a purpose.

If your stem is rigid and you see thorns growing, don't be nervous.

Your bloom is on the rise. Your petals are coming.

You may hear the wolves howling in the night, but tomorrow the birds will be humming. 

You saw him cross the finish line, but you never tasted his sweat.

You watched her conquer her demons, but those demons you've never met. 

You see the sun but you've never asked it about its violence and rage.

You wait for its warmth, but you're oh so far from the blaze. 

You see the moon but you've never asked it how it feels to be the lesser light.

You see the beauty of one who has surrendered to another's might. 

It's easy to call that fully open and delicate rose beautiful when you haven't been cut by its thorns. 

It's easy to desire to be the King until you're the one everyone scorns. 

Every beautiful beholding comes with thorns and fights and pains.

This is why you must see beauty in your own battles and shames. 

Your thorns cut, but all beautiful things were designed with weapons.

The brightest butterfly is filled with poison for any predator that threatens. 

Don't hate your struggle. Don't hate the song your life is working to compose. 

Don't hate your thorns. With them, you're a beautiful rose to behold. 

Roses are red. Bruises turn blue. 

God has said, "To death, I love you."