Pluck me a rose from thorn’s embrace,
And deliver this heart as you would in love,
To a child; a grace sublime.
No shadow of mortal masquerade,
In thy name a question to an answer told.
To be so bold as to pluck me free;
A prickle of dew upon nature’s hand
That doth well to make the oceans
And the severed lands,
As thy words were once spoken
Over blood and sky; over rain and dust.
From this vision a phoenix rose-
My son in painted clothes of red and blue,
Whose raiment would embrace this thorn;
Not harbour malice, this healing grain.
‘Til carried forth aboard this heaving vessel
As timely as the beating heart;
The journey’s end so clear in view,
To rest awhile among the crowds-
Blind judgement pressed upon thy brow,
Forgone; as truth would stain the ground
Beneath the feet this rose would mark.