HE WORE THE CROWN OF THORNS
~Then Pilate therefore took Jesus, and scourged him.
And the soldiers plaited a crown of thorns, and put it on his head, and they put on him a purple robe,
And said, Hail, King of the Jews! and they smote him with their hands~
Your Sacred Head was wounded for us; You felt the deadly pain. It was the end of Your sorrowful life, walking amongst Your beloved creation.
Your Sacred Head first lay in a feeding trough because there was no room for You in the inn. Your were born into a world that rejected You, yet You loved us until the end.
As You grew, You grew in wisdom. No evil of us filled Your thoughts. Perfectly Holy and harmless were You. And yet, You were hated by most.
Pure kindness and grace poured from Your mouth. Heavenly mysteries You unfolded to us. The common people heard you gladly. The sick, infirmed, brokenhearted and sinful flocked to You.
You taught us the truth about the Heavenly Father. You taught us about the birds the wildflowers and You had pity on the innocent animals. You loved the children. But the religious leaders wanted to kill you.
Tears flowed from your eyes at the sight of suffering. You wept over others grief, You wept over death, You wept over Your beloved Jerusalem. You are a Man of sorrows and acquainted with grief.
Towards the end of Your life, You presented Yourself as the King of Israel. As You came to the descent of the Mount of Olives the people cried ~Blessed be the King that cometh in the name of the Lord ~
But it was not to be; for now. They mocked You saying ~Hail, King of the Jews~ They put a purple robe on You. They smote You, they mocked You. They cruelly shoved down on Your regal Head a crown of thorns. Oh, such pain and anguish, shame and disgrace You suffered; for the lost, for those with no hope, for me!
As You hung upon the cross it is possible that the only thing you wore was that cruel, cruel crown of thorns. You bowed Your Head. Your arms were outstretched to all embracing all who would come to You. Your Head bent unto death under the weight of the Crown of thorns.
O Sacred Head, Now Wounded
O sacred Head, now wounded,
With grief and shame weighed down,
Now scornfully surrounded
With thorns Thine only crown.
Men mock and taunt and jeer Thee,
Thou noble countenance,
Though mighty worlds shall fear Thee
And flee before Thy glance.
How art thou pale with anguish,
With sore abuse and scorn!
How doth Thy visage languish
That once was bright as morn!
Now from Thy cheeks has vanished
Their color, once so fair;
From Thy red lips is banished
The splendor that was there.
Grim death, with cruel rigor,
Hath robbed Thee of Thy life;
Thus Thou has lost Thy vigor,
Thy strength, in this sad strife.
My burden in Thy Passion,
Lord, Thou hast borne for me,
For it was my transgression
Which brought this woe on Thee.
What language shall I borrow?
To thank Thee, dearest Friend,
For this, Thy dying sorrow,
Thy pity without end?
Oh, make me Thine forever!
And should I fainting be,
Lord, let me never, never,
Outlive my love for Thee.
Song lyrics: Bernard of Clairvaux,1153
Devotional: Virginia Ganskie,2006
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