by Lauren Huyser

Life is but a rose with thorns.
It’s planted, grows, then blooms in the morn’.
Yes, life is but a rose with thorns. 
There’s beauty yet there’s pain,
When a finger pricked by a sharp thorn,
One learns to refrain,
From the things which hurt is born.

Then a gardener comes to trim the rose,
At the stem from which it grows.
Now the life of that rose is short;
While yet the gardener still contains a smile.
You see, the place where he trimmed the rose,
Is the very place where another grows.

From the moment the bud is born,
The plant is destined to be a rose with thorns.