This past week someone asked me to imagine what it would have been like to be there at the scene of the cross, to assume someone’s point of view. The following made its way from my heart.
It just stuck there in the ground, bloody and tangled, in an eerie sludge of reddish mud. I watched my comrades twist it together earlier, while we all made fun of him. Hours later, I saw a man named Joseph (I think he is from Arimathea) take it from the dead man’s head. The way he treated the body sent shivers down my spine. While he cradled the beaten leftovers of that prophet, he carefully and gently pulled the thorny branches from the back, sides and forehead and wrapped him in white linen. He left the crown on the ground and took the corpse with him.
Something pulled me toward this crown. I picked it up and immediately felt one of the thorns pierce into my palm. The pain was sharp and made me angry. I threw the cursed thing back to ground. When I tried to pull that thorn out, it was covered in blood and I couldn’t tell if it was his or mine. I drew my sword from its sheath and picked up the crown with the tip. That’s how I carried it home.
That was three days ago. Looking at this crown now makes me feel sick. I didn’t care about that man when all my buddies drove those thorns, those long pointy thorns, into his head. I laughed with them. I actually spat on him. But now, looking at this gory thing, I wonder.
I ask myself, “What if he truly was the Son of God?”
The cursed ground shook violently
The sky went dark though it was day.
Accusing foes stood silently,
When through his death He made a way.
Our groaning nature’s overcome
By means of thorns, grown out of sin
Worn as crown by God’s own Son
To show Him as prevailing King.
But … He arose! Above all stands –
A thorny crown no longer needs.
And one day all the crowns of man
Be laid at Jesus’ conquering feet.
Heidi Viars 
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