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Friday, 18 April 2014

The Curse of Thorns

The Curse of Thorns
The crown of thorns that
 Crowns his saintly head
Thrust on tight so much
 Pain and blood is shed.
 Pinned to a cross by feet
 And hands by rusting nails
Skin, flesh and bone.”Mercy”
The crowd do cry, to no avail.
Left to die on that wooden cross
For sins of human kind, long forgot
Father, he cries, they no not what they do
But his father God almighty
 Curses all of you.
You murdered his child, his only Son
And is making you pay
Each and every one.
A pox on your souls till the end of time
With wars and famine and mothers
 Who weep for Sons who are butchered
By sick human freaks....
So it is said, so it is done
Peter Wicks 

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