The Thorn

Once I heard a song of sweetness,

As it cleft the morning air.

Sounding in its blest completeness,

Like a tender, pleading prayer.

And I sought to find the singer,

Whence the wondrous song was borne.

And I found a bird sore wounded,

Pierced by a cruel and painful thorn.

 

I have seen a soul in sadness,

While its wings with pain were furled.

Giving hope and cheer and gladness,

That should bless a weeping world.

And I knew that life of sweetness,

Was a pain and sorrow borne.

As that stricken soul was singing,

With it’s heart against a thorn.

 

You are told of One who loves you,

Of a Savior crucified.

You are told of nails that held him,

And a spear that pierced His side.

You are told of cruel scourging,

Of a Savior bearing scorn.

As He died for our salvation,

With His brow against a thorn.

 

You "are not above the master"

Will you breathe a sweet refrain?

And trust His grace will be sufficient,

When your heart is pierced with pain.

Will you live to bless His loved ones,

Though your life be bruised and torn.

Like that little bird that sang so sweetly,

With it’s heart against a thorn?