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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=386548" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Brier: Good Friday</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=386548" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">Because, dear Christ, your tender, wounded arm<br>Bends back the brier that edges life's long way,<br>That no hurt comes to heart, to soul no harm,<br>I do not feel the thorns so much to-day.<br>Because I never knew your care to tire,<br>Your hand to weary guiding me aright,<br>Because you walk before and crush the brier,<br>It does not pierce my feet so much to-night.<br>Because so often you have hearkened to<br>My selfish prayers, I ask but one thing now,<br>That these harsh hands of mine add not unto<br>The crown of thorns upon your bleeding brow.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Emily+Pauline+Johnson">Emily Pauline Johnson</a></strong></div>

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