The Thorn

I stood a mendicant of God
Before His royal throne
And begged Him for one priceless gift
Which I could call my own.
I took the gift from out His hand
But as I would depart
I cried, "But, Lord, this is a thorn!
And it has pierced my heart!
This is a strange and hurtful gift
Which Thou hast given me."
He said, "My child, I give good gifts
And gave My best to thee."

I took it home, and though at first
The cruel thorn hurt sore,
As long years passed I learned at last
To love it more and more.
I learned He never gives a thorn
Without this added grace:
He takes the thorn to pin aside
The veil which hides His face.
(Martha Snell Nicholson)