Piercing to the touch
the thorns He bore cut deep,
growing tall like every tree
these roots do gently weep.
Nimbly knives separate thin branches
for crafting something light,
wishing to be rid of stresses
these thorns deliver their plight.
Pushing down – blood does trickle
torn flesh does heed,
bearing all our sins – beforehand,
this crown our souls does feed.
Generations of sinners do thrive
on layers of His actions,
fueling hearts to acquiesce
His kingdom abstractions.