Psalm of the Dahlia

Psalm of the Dahlia

By Kateb Shunnar

O Breath of the Ancient One,

Who shaped the sun-drenched lands of Mexico and cradled the mountains of Central America in Your palm,

You sowed beauty where the eagle flew, and from Your whisper the dahlia bloomed.

Not in gardens of kings, but among the prayers of the Aztecs, it unfurled its royal crown.

You hid wisdom in petals,

Layer upon layer, secrets curled like sacred scrolls,

And hollow stems You crafted not for decoration,

But as vessels water bearers, lifelines, veins of the earth's heart.

Even the ancients, in their reverence, named it cocoxochitl,

Knowing it held more than beauty it held breath.

O Lord of the Blooming Time,

How magnificent is Your timing,

That You buried glory in soil long before any throne was built,

And in the quiet hum of hummingbirds, You ordained pollination

Like angels visiting prophets in the night.

The dahlia does not bloom for applause.

She rises in symmetry, silently shouting the language of balance.

She bows not in wind but dances when kissed by the Spirit,

Holding her vibrant colors like gospel verses Crimson for the blood that saves,

White for the peace that passes all understanding,

Purple for royalty that kneels to serve,

And gold for the promise of resurrection.

I, too, am a dahlia in Your garden, O Maker of Beauty.

My roots dig into yesterday’s sorrow,

My stem carries stories hollowed out by pain,

Yet from this emptiness flows living water.

You did not waste one wound You made it a conduit.

Your love is layered in me petal u

pon petal,

Revealing the colors I forgot were mine.

When storms came, You did not pluck me,

But strengthened my stalk.

When drought scorched the fields of my joy,

You taught me to pull moisture from hidden depths.

O Divine Gardener,

Who tends to the unseen, who speaks rain into being,

Let me be a psalm of petals in Your hands.

Let the fragrance of my life carry healing,

Let my beauty be usefulness, not vanity

As the dahlia's stem carried water,

Let me carry truth.

The bees come, the butterflies flutter,

And I do not move, yet I serve.

Planted, yet purposeful.

Grounded, yet glorious.

Not by my own doing,

But by the touch of Your eternal hand.

And though the dahlia dies in frost,

She returns with the whisper of spring.

So too shall I rise when You call me,

From the dark womb of winter’s sleep,

Into the full bloom of forever.

Selah.

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