The thorn

By Lewan Dell

I’m just a lowly wooden thorn
With all my brothers share
Upon the briar, this ‘Salem morn
Of glorious flowers bare.
‘Tis but a humble existence,
Some, for protection, say,
To crimson berries in attendance,
On whose fruit our future lay.
But one day my brothers and I are thrown
Into the glare of history.
Joined in a round as if a crown
In attempt at cruel mockery.
The head we pierce screams in agony
As crimson liquids stream.
My brothers and I, in wicked symphony,
Tear into the man upon the beam.
Had we known he was a king
We would have fought our part in this.
A greater crown, rather than the sting
Of my people’s thorny kiss.
We pierced the man upon the tree,
Though we knew not our part
Was to play in God’s decree
To repair man’s broken heart.
I am just a lowly wooden thorn
In a discarded thorny ring
For on the third ‘Salem morn
The thorned one rose as saviour king.

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