A rose from a dead bush grew with her Gardener,

in a home that should have been her own little Eden.

But the man of the house would leave her with droughts,

For he was nothing more than a heathen.

For a while that pain was all that she knew,

The petals he plucked were made into dyes.

God came to her and he told her the truth,

And the Gardener soon met his demise.

YOU ARE SAFE NOW, DEAR CHILD.