The Crown

The Prince of Ages stood before the seat
Of him who barters innocence for fame,
Betraying the World's Wonder for a name
That lasts a day and withers with the heat.

"Is this the Healer of the blind and lame?
Does he not see that I can grant him life
If he'd but speak and bend and end the strife...
His Crown remains - who is this King of Shame?"

The thorns have tongues, and each with story rife
Of sorrow, sickness, sin and bitter guilt
Enmeshed and entwined, upon each other built
To rend the Dome of Heaven like a knife.

If Pilate could but see, he'd surely stand
To kiss the Crown stayed by a mightier Hand.