His Blood Flowed Down
He stood before the soldiers,
a king draped in royal purple.
He was crowned
with a circlet of thorns woven together,
and pressed into His brow:
Sharp, piercing, cruel thorns.
And His blood
flowed
down.
Mocking soldiers played their part well.
Bowing low with sneering faces
then rising up with wooden staff
they struck Him,
over and over and over again.
The king said not a word.
They spat on Him and laughed.
The king remained silent.
No condemnation escaped His battered lips.
He was brought before His subjects,
beaten, bruised, but not broken.
Not defeated.
Crucify Him! Crucify Him!,
His subjects shouted as they rejected Him.
So He was stripped of His robe,
nailed to a crude wooden cross,
where His blood
flowed
down.
"Father, forgive them!", He cried.
"They don't know what they are doing."
They didn't know who He was.
They didn't know that He had come
to teach them the path to God.
They didn't know that it was for their sin
He was dying.
They didn't know that He was the one
they had been waiting for:
their Messiah, Deliverer, King.
They didn't know how much He loved them
as His blood
flowed
down.
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