There are hidden thorns in a rose garden,

That’s unseen by the human eye,

But the beauty of the rose is enticing

To the strangers passing by.

The thorn is attached to the rose stem,

And the stem is attached to the rose;

Both beauty and fragrance are noticeable,

But the thorn is seldom disclosed.

There is a measure of pain in loving,

That its beauty compels us to share;

Sorrow is a part of loving,

And true love has a cross we must bear.