The gift of grace, torn from this thorned side is burden then bliss.
That thorn, though nature given, derides the weary soul, entreating each to his demise.
That we should wither in sin stained agony, as if it were not just one, but one thousand barbs choking flesh.
Yet, we are given knowledge to combat such bramble as man's heart invites.
The stained veil of scrupulosity used to wipe the wearied mind,
The thorn-crowned head stooped to view our soul's true cost,
Water from hallowed flank to cleanse the ailing mind.
Necessary fault, O happy inequity, that through exultant pain salvation should be born to most unworthy man.
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