But I see their beauty, for God placed them there, So that's where I leave them and tend to their care.

Their roots, growing deeply, hold fast and true, As my faith, my love and my hope must do

To garner my strength for another day, To weather life's storms that come my way.

Where I see a flower and you see a weed, Its presence and purpose fulfills my need

To do what I can to manage the earth, In my small garden, regardless of worth.

As I nurture my weeds and watch them grow, There's something I've often wanted to know:

Could the loveliest rose, cursed with its thorn, Be simply a weed -- imperfectly born?