The Crown

The crown that the precious Savior wore,
Not of gold or silver, that's for sure.
It had not the look of majesty,
The signs of priesthood or royalty.

Nothing attractive about this crown
But dear to the sinner it was found.
Blood drops upon its harrowing thorns.
Representing the love that 'twas born.

It was viewed as an eyesore to some,
But 'twas placed upon the Holy One.
Afflicting limbs twisting 'round to form
A mockery to the angel born.

'Twas made of thorns, a sinner accursed
The twisted vine that brought children's birth.
Not a sign of righteous royalty
But a sign of love in captivity.

Blood flowed down from his innocent brow
And dripped upon his holy shrow.
No king desired this agonizing crown
But he proudly wore it for his renown.