All she has hid within

Is opened and poured out

At His feet.

Before her accusers.

Those who not so long ago

Held her need for love

To her throat like a knife,

And what she could not give

They took,

Then would have stoned her.

Now they stand

Around her again

With angry faces

And pointing fingers.

But the fragrance of her gift

Reaches deep into His heart.

For to Him

The bruised blossom

Gives the sweetest perfume.

Judy L. Ness