I stood a mendicant of God
Before his royal throne
And begged him for one priceless gift
Which I could call my own.
I took the gift from out his hand
But as I would depart,
I cried, “But Lord, this is a thorn
And it has pierced my heart.”
“This is a strange and hurtful gift
Which thou hast given me.”
He said, “My child, I give good gifts
And gave my best to thee.”
I took it home and though at first
The cruel thorn hurt sore
As long years passed I learned at last
To love it more and more.
I learned He never gives a thorn
Without this added grace
He takes the thorn to pin aside
The veil that hides his face.