Crown Of Thorns

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 not but 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 did I 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 are 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.