He walks down the hall,
With a crown twisted in thorn,
Painted with blood,
And spit on with scorn.
More precious than Solomen’s diadem,
Dabbed with jewels of blood,
Yet still taken with love
To serve every one of us.
His welts are deemed as spangles,
And they’ll tell His story
Crown of thorns twisted in horror,
Yet worn with His glory