The Perfect Rose(s)

There is a old Advent carol called "There is No Rose of Such Virtue" which has been set by any number of composers from Dunstable to Britten. The text is intriguing:

1. There is no rose of such virtue, As is the rose that bare Jesu; Alleluia.
2. For in this rose contained was Heaven and earth in little space; Res miranda. (wonderful thing)
3. By that rose we may well see That he is God in persons three, Pari forma. (equal in form)
4. The angels sungen the shepherds to: Gloria in excelsis deo: Gaudeamus. (Glory to God in the highest, Let Us rejoice)
5. Leave we all this worldly mirth, And follow we this joyful birth; Transeamus. (let us follow)
6. Alleluia, res miranda,Pares forma, gaudeamus, Transeamus.

An interesting metaphor of which I was reminded at end of Compline this evening. Pre-service was a concert of German lieder sung by a promising young baritone, a nice preface to the evening's offering. As I sat entranced in the candlelit cathedral, I was ever so conscious of the prayer ascending to heaven, and of others' meditations, my own on behalf of the two women I am interceding for concerning their cancer. Especially on my heart tonight was the newly ordained pastor just diagnosed with lung cancer.

As I sat praying, I could hear the pelting rain striking the roof above me. Strange how this icy rain, a bear to deal with outside (especially on top of the inches of snow), created a comforting sound inside. What is there about the patter of rain on the roof that brings a sense of comfort and quietness? It felt as if my prayers were rising and God's tears were falling, His heart as broken as mine about the pervasive suffering that surrounds us.

At end of compline (sung mostly in English this evening), we all sat, reticent to leave, to face the unkind elements outside. We watched as the priests extinguished the candles starting with the ones above the altar, circling around the music stands on the platform. Finally, one brave person stood, and the rest of us followed down the hall to the parlor where there were refreshments and a chance to meet the performers and the soloist (and the amazing pianist who accompanied him!).

My friend, with whom I rode, greeted friends and students, making introductions, giving conversation topics a start. I finally tired of standing and retired to a corner near a neglected little piano. I sighed, happy to be able to still hear the rain, grateful for the sweet punch and teacake, taking in the many conversations buzzing here and there about the grand old room, as ancient and filled with grandeur as the sanctuary itself.

At last, I turned my head toward the credenza by the door and saw a crystal vase filled with a dozen perfect pink roses, their faces more widely opened than I thought possible. "They must be artificial," I thought. "They are too perfect to be real." But as I gazed at their deep blush of color, their gentle arch of stem, I realized that I could sense rose fragrance. Did they spray them with rose water?

I nonchalantly wandered over, reached out as inconspicuously as I could, and touched a petal. It was real! The whole bouquet was soft and warm and real. I bent and inhaled fully. The gentle fragrance caressed my face. As if they knew they were being admired, they shifted ever so slightly so that I could clearly see all twelve of them both in reality and in reflection in the ornate mirror that hung on the wall over the credenza.

The room receded from my awareness. I wanted to pick them up and hug them they were so beautiful. I marveled over and over at how perfect they were, how wide and open the petals, how none of them were decaying, how sweet the smell without being overpowering. A moment of incredible beauty, and no one in the room was even remotely aware of it. People were starting to leave, wrapping coats about them and shivering at the thought of going outside where the rain was pummeling the ground in all seriousness, threatening to start a flood.

I lingered, hating to take my eyes off the roses, mindful of that English carol, mindful of how beautiful Jesus is, how the world does not always notice His beauty, does not realize how fragrant His love for them. I am doubly blessed.