My heart is broken,
As my beloved son comes to death,
Others mock him,
A crown of thorns forced on his head,
Rose bush thorns, sharp as holly like daggers digging in.
I can feel his pain,
Sharp splinters pushing in,
Heavy wood slowly slipping down,
The stony road prickling his bare feet, the hot, sandy, dusty path.
They’re shouting, and jeering,
The spiteful soldiers, in their rich armour,
Their secretive echo around my head,
Blood trickles down Jesus’ straggled hair.
I have no choice,
But to stare longingly at him,
I shall have to bear living without him,
Jesus has agreed and will not change his mind,
He will take the hard and painful way, to be crucified.
I have hope,
That Jesus will enjoy a grand, new life,
And God’s plan to change the world will succeed,
People will change and live a better life,
And Jesus, my son will have given his life for us.
Written by a year 3/4 (age 7-9 years old) pupil at St Mark’s Primary School.
Published in St Mark’s Parish Magazine (March-April 2012).