Where would I be without this thorn in my flesh?
Resting on plastic laurels of pride and vainglory.
This thorn – it keeps me near His crown. It pricks me to my knees, where my heart learns humility, to the ground of a tear soaked garden.
Without this thorn – whither the rose? Whither the scarlet hue and scent of beauty? Whither the unfolding of life, rising from dark and secret places? Whither the bloom of rooted victory?
This thorn – it keeps me real. It keeps me wrestling. It keeps me desperate for the blessing that comes to those who persevere in His presence.
Without this thorn – where would strength break through my shell?
This thorn – through its piercing the whispers come: My grace is sufficient for thee. My power is made perfect in weakness.
I will not despise this wound, for through it the lifeblood flows.
Without this thorn, oh whither the rose?