He Was Not First That Bled

The crown of thorns by hand was made
And pressed into His head,
But I can see in my mind's eye
He was not first that bled.
As ugly thorns from vine were cut
And turned to make the wreath,
Those 2 inch spikes would pierce the flesh
And blood pour out beneath.
The hand withdrawn in agony
By other hand was clasped,
And both looked for a refuge
From that dreaded thing just grasped.
The piercing pain shot up the arm
Like fire under skin,
And this was just a minor wound
It hardly entered in.
Imagine now with both eyes closed
Search deep within your mind,
Has ever there been crueler herb
Or plant found so unkind?
While holding thought, think of the men
Who planned this frightful deed,
And you will see the deadlier fruit
Spawned from a darker seed.