An Enemy Has Done This

An enemy has done this. This the answer
That the Master gave why noxious weeds
Spidered through his field now like a cancer,
Threatening the good and fruitful seed.

Every thorn deliberate? I believe it,
Kneeling in my garden overgrown.
I grip a thistle, prick myself, and leave it,
Wipe my brow and breathe a tired groan.

So Adam’s curse takes root while I am shirking—
And not merely without; it grows within.
The serpent at my garden gate is lurking,
Sowing in my heart the seeds of sin.

I weed till my hands bleed; yet thorns remain.
So help me, Master, pierce your hands again.