Meditation on the Crown with Thorns – Day 14

"What was his crime?"
A smooth and quiet tone
of one who was bred fine
yet chills to the bone.

"An insurrectionist, who styles himself a king."
That small smile that freezes blood
thinking further torments that would bring
the prisoner's cries in a flood.

"A king you say? He who drips with gore?"
His smile broadens to a mirthless chuckle,
"Go find a robe and scepter"
He carefully wraps his knuckles.

"From that thorn bush will I fashion a crown."
grinning we begin our gruesome task
crossing that bloody ground
doing what was asked.

The prisoner is untied, a reed thrust in his hand.
Round the fresh wounds wrap a soldier's cloak
No, he need not stand.
and spikes of man's production jabbed in the brain with a stroke

We bow and spit, snatch and hit.
yet even with our new attack,
he remained quiet.

Alright boys, let's send him back.

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