A Crown Of Thorns
He Wore On His Head,
While Everyone Shouted,
"We Want Him Dead!"

A Crown Of Thorns
It Had To Be,
In Order For Us
To Be Set Free.

His Robe Was Ripped,
Yes It Was Torn.
Oh How Beautiful
That Crown Of Thorns!

With Nails Driven Deep
Into His Hands And His Feet;
Satan Thought For Sure
He Had Him Beat.

The Blood It Dripped
Down His Face,
From That Crown Of Thorns
That Was Placed;

Upon His Head
For Me And You,
Without That Crown
What Would We Do?

Cathy Jo Moore
© 2000
(used by permission)