Crown of Thorns

26 Jan

My seed was born

One bright spring morn

In gardens grown by God.

Out of the earth

My stem gave birth

To petals red as blood.

The gentile rain

My growth sustained,

And like each seed God sows,

I dreamed one day

That I’d be named

A king’s most precious rose.

One day a soldier

Bent me over,

Tore me from my bed.

All beaten, battered,

My stem tattered,

Wanted but for dead

In cruel hands ripped,

My beauty stripped,

‘Twas not the dream I chose,

And filled with shame,

I wept in pain,

No more a precious rose.

Then I did see

The soldiers lead

A man through palace doors.

Was this my king?

Why did they bring him in,

This man so poor?

A purple garment

Hid the torment

None but I could see.

They mocked and laughed,

Gave him a staff,

And bowed on bended knee.

They bent me round

And wove a crown

And placed me on his head.

My petals found

Crushed on the ground,

Like tears of God turned red.

With each small sin

I was pressed in.

I pierced with self-disdain.

In thought and deed

I made him bleed,

My selfishness, his pain.

“Behold!” they’d sing,

“Behold your King!

Hail, King of the Jews!”

With each reed’s blow,

Our pain did grow,

As one we were abused.

Despite the crown

He did not frown;

He smiled with love instead,

And carried me

For all to see

Upon his tender head.

Once placed with awe

In manger straw,

Anointed by John’s hands,

Transfigured on

A mountain dawn,

Now wore a mangled branch.

Once gently kissed

By Mary’s lips,

And blessed with magi’s myrrh,

Baptized by

A parting sky,

Now streamed with blood so pure.

An innocent brow

Calls to us now

To follow this example:

To let our thorns

And all that scorns

Be healed within his temple.

Though dreams may fade,

Each one was made

In seed that Jesus sows.

And now I see

I’m called to be

The King’s most precious rose.

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