WormWood
Most often we misthought,
yet understood
The bitter truth
that nothing here is good
Our earthly life,
of reason is unbrewed
That hides the pain
and hurt which we allude
This root of gall
becomes my daily food
And eat the fruit
that turns my bowels crude
My tongue was fooled
by that which could not soothe
For I did swallow
more than I had chewed
For this I stumbled
and became most rude
I was offended
like the multitude
And though my mind
is calloused, I construed
His chastening rod
is made of tender wood
And ceases not until
it breaks for good
A wormwood changed
my bitter attitude
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