Sometimes the words are hard to find
To write these songs of praise,
Sometimes I struggle and still say
Things in the worst of ways.
The weeds grow freely in my mind,
They clutter up each thought.
I try to say what’s in my heart,
But then it comes to naught.
I curse the weeds that wrap me up,
I fight them as they grow.
I try to crush them as they bloom
For they distress me so.
But just today I realized
I should have stopped to see
The weeds that bloom and clog my mind
Are sometimes quite pretty.
Perhaps it isn’t essential
To have the perfect bloom,
Maybe the weeds do have a place
And I should give them room.
Admitting that there’s beauty there
Is really hard to do,
But looking at them in this light…
I must admit it’s true.
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