O Lord, must life be all thorns
Without a rose thrown in
Now and again for comfort
And as a reminder?

Surely some good must someday
Come of all this toiling.
Surely we do not sweat
Long in the fields
For no harvest.

Remind me again, my Lord,
Of the Why and the bright promise.
Astound me like Doubting Thomas.
Send a bright bluebird to a nearby limb
For all work and no play
Has this Jack getting grim.

And I’ve too often seen harvests
Are not guaranteed.
Plundering bandits sweep sabers of greed.
Crops can be blighted,
And life throws a curve
When hard working smokers
Earn but coughs they deserve.

The roses are brief
But the thorns last all year.
Treasure the moments
When God’s love is near.

The roses are brief
But their scent in the air
Can uplift the crushed
And skewer despair.

The roses are brief
So down on my knees
I thank God for June
And the sun on the leaves
Though the roses are brief.

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