Beauty of the Thistle-thorn

Among the flowering weeds,
    a purple thistle grows
Yearning for the sunlight,
    a lift it's spirits low.
Tangled in the milieu,
    firm attached to ground
The bristles of the flower,
    attach to passers few.

Few will wander nearby,
    to hold in friendship grand.
Routine abandonment she fears.
    tossed aside to dry,
In sorrow brittle, broken.
    no seen to send aloft.
No one to hold her close again,
    a death of bitter dark..

Workmen  in their leather boots,
    slice with sickle true.
No beauty in the thistle.
    no inner courage seen.
Piled on the fire high,
    burned into the ground.
Harsh their rules define the truth,
    sinful justice cruel.

Yet from the blackened ground will spring,
    a seed re-grouth to sprout.
New and gentle beauty sway,
    stronger for the fail.
Three days to battle deep and dark,
  eternity to reign.
Beauty in the thistle thorns,
  as only He portrays