By F. Geckle
I grew upon a rocky hill
Despised by all who passed me by
Their loathing causes me no sting
For I once crowned a King
My branches, cursed upon this earth
To sinful man as thorny fruit
Of his daily sweat and toiling
To one day crown a King.
He made me, lowly creature, knowing that
My thorns, like man with his iniquities
Would further pain upon Him bring
And still, I lived to crown a King
Now my limbs are torn and forced upon
The head of my afflicted Lord
Cruel men! To whom is given everything
Is this how you would crown your King?
The head that I would fain embrace
But for the agony increased
Had I a heart it would surely wring
For I must crown my King.
Now bows the Head that I surround
And petals red as the blood He shed
On my forlorn branches ever spring
To mark the day I crowned a King.
