“And when they fashioned a crown of thorns, they out it on His head [and mocked Him].”

 I wear my own crown of thorns today. 

The plant-needles stab into my head. 

Invisible drops of blood pour down my face. 

I feel the invisible droplets hot, 

all over my face, 

my eyes, 

my neck. 

No ounce of relief comes from its prickly stab. 

The thorns are too deep to pull out the crown. 

Mockery comes pouring in my ears for the pain no one can see.

My face hides the injury inside caused by the thorns.

I command my face to turn to the stone from which the thorns sprung up.

Will I ever bear the strength to pull of the thorny crown?

Will nature’s maker pull the crown for me?

He too wore His own crown of thorns.

He knows the pain of it stabbing points. 

He felt the same drops trickling down His face. 

But, His face was stained from the blood.

He has prevented my face from mirroring that crimson stain.

Wipe away the tears, O’ Maker. 

Pull out the thrones, O’ Healer.

Renew the scars around around my head. 

Replace my own crown of thorns. 

But with what?

How can it be replace? 

It’s a decoration I’ve worn so long. 

Maker, Healer, will it be gone?