Standing there in the morning sun so fair. Your fragrance fills the cold morning air. With dew drops dancing across your petals so grand. The smell of the rose, is a gift from God to man. The color as red as the blood from your passionate heart. There is no wonder it shows up in so much of man's art. Like on you, I find thorns to protect the rose's delicate stem. How do I get to your heart, must the thorns be trimmed?