God allows some nettles among our flowers,
And as we encounter these days of frown.
From the far horizon, a confluence of showers,
To retain life's garden from remaining brown.
Periodically we see our vitality shattered,
As eternal sleep beckons those we love.
We clutch God's hand as days are tattered,
Thistles fixate vision on the throne above.
As we yank at nettles we find seed scatter,
We cultivate and dress our flowers with dung.
The lesson, if learned, only Grace will matter,
Not our slight of hand or glibness of tongue.
On sunny days when universe seems bright,
God discerns we're once more at our best.
Exposed thistles disappear amid God's light,
And He awaits to assist in our next life test.