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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