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The Thorn

You have not seen a thorn until you see that of the bougainvillea. Trust me, I have pricked myself more often than I can count by those suckers. Underneath the gentle, papery flowers painted in the brightest hues of pink, thorns hide.

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Our church has been in a series in the Gospel of Mark, which landed us talking about the Passion in an unexpected time in the liturgical calendar. Since we were studying a familiar passage in an unfamiliar time of year, different parts of the Passion story stood out to me, most notably those poor thorns.

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Those poor thorns, they probably belonged on a plant like my bright bougainvillea. They were created to guard those petals spoken into existence by their mutual Creator. I imagine that those poor thorns,  had they been animated, would have fought against their lot. They were made to declare and point to their Divine Creator-Artist, not to pierce his head. That Sacred Head deserved a garland of flowers and victory, not the gashes of unjust suffering.

I imagined our Christ comforting even the thorn that would pierce His head, knowing the Crown that would come.

The Thorn

Oh, let it not be my lot, Lord,
To pierce your beautiful brow.
They twist and contort me,
You watch them even now.

I see that you can see me
Through your bloodied gaze.
You care for Your creation,
Even on your worst of days.

Your voice spoke into being
The plant I do adorn.
Must I be an instrument
To make your voice mourn?

Must I unmake my Maker,
Slicing His Sacred Head?
Must I be enlisted in a plot
Leaving Life-Maker dead?

Fret not, my fibrous friend,
                 For a better crown yet comes.
                 My desperate, dying gasps
                 With life will fill their lungs.

                 Rest here on my brow,
                 Play your part in this story,
                 For suffering and submission
                 Will end in lasting glory.

 

 

 

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