The crowd surrounds Him, He is taking the abuse viciously, the pain
It's a real shame, because half of the members don't know His name
The sounds, the shouts..........."Crucify" echoes in my hollow head
I'm looking upon a man who in a few hours should and will be dead
The blood trickles down His face, deep crevasses and gashes
His head taking damage as people toss, throw dirt and ashes
I just want to go out to Him, save Him from this painful scorn
As I move forward, a Roman soldier twists a branch of thorns
It is shaped into a crown, and it is put, pushed into an awkward place
A cry...a yelp....a scream of horror, as blood runs down His face
The smell so strong, I taste, I feel the agony and the torment
A crack of the nine tails...it's like being attacked by raging hornets
All I can do is grimace, groan at the look of the man's expression
People are getting bored, the cries die, nobody is at attention
Until the march starts, the man carries His death upon His shoulders
It feels like years, decades, centuries...but the hour is only half over
All of a sudden I experience the pain from the object, the thorny crown
I walk over to the man, just as He puts his cross before me on the ground
"You, pick that up!" A Roman soldier points and glares, stares at me
I do without questioning, it's heavy, How could He bare it when He's weak?
I follow the red-robed man, my thoughts are His, I can feel the essence
The presence of something Holy, the presence of purity, no repentance
I snap awake as a tomato flies by my head, and hits the man in the back
I turn around, wanting to snap, because the man did not deserve that
I think again, a man who has healed so many, brought so much with Him
I don't understand completely, it just shows the faults of this Roman system
We reach the top of the mountain, the man is nailed to the cross torn to pieces
I realize now, the Crown of Thorns is the Crown of God...this man was Jesus
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