Amos the Churchmouse — the rose of suffering love

By Gary Mitchell

Editor’s Note: As Easter nears, Amos, the poetic churchmouse, has been intensely reviewing the devastating events of the first Good Friday in history.

The agony of the Savior in Gethsemane, the kiss of betrayal by one of His own, the mockery and injustice of a kangaroo court, the beating, the taunting and the scourging by the Roman soldiers, and finally, the cruel, tortuous nailing of His body to the cross to die has completely overwhelmed the little churchmouse’s soul and intellect.

In a cover letter to his column this week, he writes:


such agony is



unbearable to even

think about


and to think boss that

my sin


his pain

to begin with

it just makes me

hurt inside out


With that note, Amos turned away from the church office’s old computer, stumbled through the rows of church pews, and out into the church’s rose garden in the front courtyard.

Being in a reflective mood, he immediately bumped into a rosebush, complete with sharp thorns.


the rose of suffering love


boss i guess you

heard about the

rosebush incident

how can something

so beautiful

hurt so bad question

mark  i m still

picking thorns

out of my tail  it s

not funny boss

whiney the porcupine

still chuckles when

he sees me  it s

the first time he s

grinned in seven

months he says


but i ve been thinking

boss about that rose

and its thorns

it has a message

even to the one

who scorns


so here s a poem

to the rose of

suffering love

dedicated to our

divine sufferer



tucked beneath the beauty

of a rose

hides the throbbing torture

of the thorn

guarding love s soft petals

from its foes

that green sentinel watches

night and morn


he who would embrace that

beauteous rose

often pays the price of

wounded love

to touch where beauty s

sweet fragrance grows

he mingles his love with

sorrow s blood


the creator shaped a world

of grace

a grand garden of roses

and love

but then – sin raised up its

hellish face

coating the earth with death

like a flood


beauty s roses wilted in


sin thrust out its

treacherous thorn-club

yet god sent his son – the

cross to face –

to mingle his love with

sorrow s blood –


with his precious life-blood

flowing down

jesus trimmed that thorn-club

to a nub

and caused grace and mercy

to abound

by mingling his love with

sorrow s blood