By The Drifter from Heaven
Here lies a King whose crown was made of thorn,
A golden nail that cast a grievous wound for the forlorn,
He traded scepters for a bed of clay,
A throne of decay for a king slain in dismay.
Yet beneath the dust where the shadows lie deep,
A quiet grace wakes while the weary bones sleep.
No longer a prisoner of the thorn and the nail,
He finds a new kingdom where the light shall not fail.
Apr 17
Apr 17, 2026 at 9:06 AM UTC
By The Drifter from Heaven
Here lies a King whose crown was made of thorn,
A golden nail that cast a grievous wound for the forlorn,
He traded scepters for a bed of clay,
A throne of decay for a king slain in dismay.
Yet beneath the dust where the shadows lie deep,
A quiet grace wakes while the weary bones sleep.
No longer a prisoner of the thorn and the nail,
He finds a new kingdom where the light shall not fail.