PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

I wear a crown upon my head;

all these riches at my feet.

My subjects bow before me;

I have control over this land.

But your crown was bloodied

and made of thorns.

You were affixed 

to your throne by nails 

in your wrists and ankles.

Those below you 

spit in your face,

stripped your robe

off your scarred back.

With your last breath,

you had the final say.

You could have condemned us to hell,

but you showed compassion

on the ones who rejected you.

You wanted to know us

because of your great love for us.

You forgave us

in spite of our flaws;

you washed us clean with your blood.

Who am I to call myself a queen

when you were the only rightful King

and you chose to die in my place?