What happened to that crown of thorns that pierced His blessed head,
The one we should have worn but one He chose to wear instead?
That crown whose thorns still carried stains of royal blood so rare
That DNA can’t match it; there's no sample to compare.
I’d like to think when God looked down upon His suffering Son
And wiped His ageless eyes in sadness at what man had done,
That God retrieved that blood-soaked crown and held it to His breast
So soldiers couldn’t hold it up, make fun of it in jest.
Perhaps God placed that crown of thorns in Heaven’s Trophy Case,
Reserved for things from martyrs who had known God’s special grace,
For Jesus was a martyr, too, the greatest One of all,
For laying down His life in answer to His Father’s call.
Some glorious day, all kings and queens will stand before the throne
From all the ages they’ll be there, the famous, the unknown.
They’ll look upon the Son of God who sits in Mercy’s Seat,
Then bending on their knees, they'll place their crowns at Jesus’ feet.
The faithful come before Him, those who worshipped Him on earth,
All saints since the Creation, all believers since His birth.
And there before the Master, stripped of meaningless façade,
They lay their crowns before Him, this beloved Son of God.
God strides to Heaven’s Trophy Case, removes the crown of thorns,
The one that Jesus wore when He endured those scoffs and scorns.
God lifts it high for all to see; as shouting fills the air,
The wood turns into diamonds, all the thorns to rubies rare.
The saints explode in worship, as the mighty choir sings,
"Hail, hail, our blessed Saviour, Lord of Lords and King of Kings,
You're worthy, blessed Jesus, and it's You whom we adore.
All heaven bows before You, You shall reign forevermore!"