| His Crown of Thorns |
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When I'm at the very ending Of the fiercest day of storms, I need to cast my mind Back to the crown of thorns I deserved to be mine. Each pain I feel was His, As they pressed the anger home, To force that barb of hatred down For Him to wear it as His own. But, why do I make it such a cruel crown? His mind was thus surrounded, Compressed within to tear, And, ravage at His soul To mock the Kingly title wear; And write more sin upon the scroll. What possessed my imagination To plait a crown of thorns And drive them deeper in? Oh, Father, how much You love To forgive me of my sin. For, would I reduce Your Son Into a feeble man of earth And not want Him to have the power To release me Into the miracle of new birth. |
| Other poems by Derry A large collection of poems, submitted by Derry |
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