The Thorn

'Tis strange that those for whom we care,
For us so little feel;
And those we shun would gladly share
So much of service, love and weal,
So much of life for us.


And stranger still, those whom we serve
So slightly hold the deed;
And they our acts would best subserve,
So seldom get, so often need
Encouragement from us.


Too true it is, they hold the rose
And flay us with the thorn;
And stranger still, we're foiled by those
Our fervent hope is to adorn,
Our will is but to serve.