I look at this picture and think of Benjamin Britten's great Serenade for Tenor Solo, Horn and Strings, Op. 31. He sets poetry to music and there's a particularly haunting one about a rose by William Blake. It starts with " O Rose, thou art sick...". Just like the Human Spirit, it's sacred beauty can still hurt you with its hidden thorns as well as attract the invisible worm to sap you. It is impossible to fully let go and trust.