The Thorn

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.