37 of 296

Write now Article Tools

Crown Of Thorns

The musky sent of blood filled the air in a thick coat of sweat.

I could feel the vibrations of the whips as the sound of leather and metal hit flesh.

Feelings of numbness seemed to cover the roots of all the plants.

I watched as he gripped his fists together and squinted in pain.

The soldiers grasped him and dragged his tattered form.

They came to me, simply a pathetic bunch of thorns and weeds.

Their hands a frame to this painted parchment of mockery and false glory.

I was bound into a crown, damned from the first grasp of Roman hands.

They placed me upon Christ's head and forced my thorns to impale his brow.

They prepared the cross and shoved it to his shoulders.

I felt his muscles straining and his heartbeat racing as he carried it.

I saw all the people staring; their expressions were terror, hatred and sadness.

He struggled to carry that burden of the cross he sacrificed by choice.

His breathing was ragged and strained;

I could feel the pulse running through his body.

The Romans were smirking; their expressions revolting as the dead and as barbaric as a wild beast.

Their eyes were glazed as if they were sleepwalking yet they had a sort of stunned ignorance to them.

He was dragged onto the cross and stretched so his arms would reach

where his nails were meant to be.

As his head was crashed into the cross by the guard I could feel my thorns run deeper with each strike into the wooden frame.

As the cross was raised, I saw the faces of lost souls, like sheep stranded from their herd.

We stayed, hours, the sky turned to dusk, the sun slowly descended, sending the sky into vivid colors from bright red roses to deep blue seas.

I felt him take a deep breath and say "It is finished."

I felt no pulse in the air his lungs expelled.

A guard came up to us and with fleeting eyes of tension and anxiety,

He drove a spear into My Lords side.

In the Holy Temple the sound of a curtain tearing could be heard. Deep purple fabric made to divide.

Its Golden hooks, twisted linen, and posts of wood outlined the deeps depth's of the curtain.

I felt the soft, feather like touch of hands.

It was Mary; she grasped me and lightly pulled me out of Christ's flesh.

She clutched me to her chest as she stared at her son, Jesus.

The soft pad of her fingers softly stroked my bare thorns and I felt all at once,

forgiven.

Learn more about this author, J.G. Sparks.
Click here to send this author comments or questions.

Add your voice

Know something about Poetry: Christian?
We want to hear your view. Write now!