When was the last time you picked God a flower?

I saw this somewhere...a hurriedly scribbled, yet very purposeful, note:

"...a scab...? My wounds are healing...my tiny scrapes are healed by His lascerations. More, my death, my 'the end', was killed, and I live in His Sacrifice. His blood makes me pure. My Love, my Christ, has Redeemed me. My sin sent Him to the Cross, but He loves me anyway! What kind of power resides in such a Love?"