The thorns that etched into His head—

Needles, yes, but in multitudes.

The words, the taunts, the unholy whispers of men,

Stung and scraped His flesh.

But He knew;

What is unholy cannot pierce His thoughts.

For within His Spirit dwelled holiness,

The whisper of the Father—

The same voice that descended at His baptism:

This is my Beloved.

The same voice that rung through the Heavens’ chambers,

Reaching all the worshipping angels who abide,

At the sound, they stirred and cried,

Is it time now?

As Father willed it.

At that hour—

In his laying down,

He lifted all of us up.