The flowerbed in front of my living room window is planted with roses. And when they bloom, they bloom. The flowers are full bodied, ripe with fragrance, their ruffled petals embracing a whole palette of hues—from warm gold to deep fuchsia pink, like a sunset...in a single blossom. Isn't it a wonder that such things as roses— rich, rare, lavish—are held as such commonplaces among us? That they are seen by the eyes of just and the unjust? Common graces indeed, beauties so rich as these.
