The purest words, the words that acknowledge pain, and don't run from it, or try to gloss it over, are the words that comfort me –
The stranger paused. He marvelled
At a heart-rooted pain.
The thorn ran deep, the bud
Spread a crimson stain.
He would not pluck it, for fear
The rose scattered like rain.
An unknown Brit wrote these words sometime in the 10th century.
I think each of us has known the "heart-rooted" pain that is sharp as a thorn deep inside us.
Is the rose an emblem of love? Can pain ever be a source of love?
And who is the stranger? The one wise enough to know not to pluck the pain lest the rose be lost.
Surely he is a gardener to know that rose petals scatter like rain. Surely he is no stranger.