THY SORROW OF THORNS

THY SORROW OF THORNS 

In the stillness of the shadows of my soul, I see it, there, bloodied and horrifying: this mass of thorns—penetrating swords of pain—casting a halo of blood and scarring tissue upon Thy Sacred Head. Thy Sacred Precious Blood, flowing from Thy wounds, running endlessly, downward, upon Thy Body. Thy inflictions of thorns, sharp and merciless, forced upon Thy head—a mocking crown—pressed down into Thy flesh and skull, cutting and ripping away Thy skin, to inflict anguish to all Thy senses—this outward sign, of humiliation to a fallen King. And dragged through the streets, as a hemorrhage of hatred and rejection intensified—for they beat Thee; they kicked Thee; spit on Thee; despised Thee; cursed Thee; lashed out at Thee; as Thy crown of thorns lodged deeper, into Thy head. In Thy tormenting pain, Thy physical weakness, and inflictions, Thy crown, Thy thorns—pulling and tearing Thy scalp—remained, embedded. Those who loved Thee, abandoned Thee. Those who did not know Thee, hated Thee. You carried Thy crown, to Thy death, and departed. 

When it was all over, Thy Precious Body was lowered from Thy Cross, and placed into the arms, of Thy mother. What was left of Thee, of Thy tormented bloodied Body, lay limp, held by Thy mother—Thy crown of sorrow, of thorns, lifted away; the agony of Thy mother, unleashing, uncontrollable cries from her heart; the tears of Thy mother, melting, falling upon her Lord, her Son. 

For here, deep within me, Thy sorrow of thorns penetrate into my senses, all Thy inflictions and torment of Thy Crucifixion, all Thy pain and suffering. O Lord, with great sorrow and reverence, I embrace Thee. For Thy thorns that pierced Thy mother's heart—like a sword with no mercy—I reach out to Thee, with a sorrowful, compassionate heart. Of all Thy anguish and tears, Thy inflictions, none of these, escape me. I cast away Thy thorns—this crown of hatred—and kiss Thy wounds. I'll be with Thee, and compose a symphony of prayer, to compassionate each wound, to give Thee rest. I behold Thy mother; I behold each tear of her sorrowful heart. I love Thee. I love Thee with all my heart. For You carried Thy sorrow of thorns, in Thy greatest fear and torment, with an outpouring of love. I'll be with Thee, for You were so alone, so abandoned; for each wound of infliction, penetrated with hatred. Each wound of infliction flowed from Thee, pure love. Each drop of Precious Blood, fell from Thee, with mercy, and forgiveness. I'll be with Thee, in Thy sorrow; for sorrow is the truth of Thy heart, the fabric of Thy soul. The sorrow of Thy thorns, is an exclamation point, for You suffered so greatly, before being nailed to Thy Cross.

I look at Thee, and look at Thy thorns. It is I who flinches in pain, with one needle prick. It is I who flinches in mercy, when I think of what Thy enemies have done to Thee. And in my sorrow, I am heartily moved, that I have offended Thee, with my sins and negligence.

I lift up my contrite heart to Thee: take it, and use it with love, that my passion for Thee, will ignite passion in another, for Thee. For this sorrow of thorns has penetrated my soul, consumed with a burning desire to compassionate Thy wounds. Holding Thee in my arms, my tears flood over Thee, floating away, Thy sorrow of thorns. 

Robert J. Varrick

rjvarrick@gmail.com