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 gentle 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 gripped,
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.