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| by Mary Wacaster |
Though thorns are sharp
And drops of blood are
there,
Pick the bloom and smell
the rose;
Observe its beauty rare.
Give praise to God and
to His name;
Bow humbly as you mourn;
See rainbows through dew-dropped tears
In the dark times of the
thorns.
Do you weep because of
pain
And sorrow weighs you
down?
Pick the rose and press
it close,
And place it near the
Crown.
Listen close as darkness
falls
To that once echoed cry,
“Why do you forsake me,
Father,
When I have to die?”
Is your journey through
this world
A struggle day by day?
Pick the rose; its
petals strew
Step by step along the
way.
Bring into your
memories’ path
Burdens that once were
borne
By the full atoning love
Of one crowned with your
thorn.
Though thorns are sharp,
And drops of blood are
there,
Seek the bloom and grasp
the rose;
Observe its beauty rare.
Give praise to God and
to His name;
Bow humbly as you mourn.
Seek then, rainbows
through your tears
In the dark times of the
thorns.
