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