There was a thorn of a rose
That lived in a hanging garden.
Soldiers cut it up, bundled it into a bag
And curved it into a crown.
They placed it on a young man
Who had just been scourged
And laughed at him derisively.
It was a long time coming for me
To realize that it was You.
Was I the thorn, O Christ
Who pierced your Blessed Face?
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