Theodore Tilton



The Crown Of Thorns

by Theodore Tilton


Thy head was crowned with thorns:
What crown shall be for mine?
Are there for me no scoffs, no scorns,
Since only such were Thine?


Or, having named Thy name,
Shall I no burden take?
And is there left no wound, no shame,
To suffer for Thy sake?


Unscourged of any whip,
Unpierced of any sting, --
O Christ, how weak my fellowship
With Thy strong suffering!


Yet Thy dread sacrifice
So fills my soul with woe,
That all the fountains of mine eyes
Well up and overflow.


The spear that pierced Thy side
Gave wounds to more than Thee,
Within my soul, O Crucified,
Thy cross is laid on me!


And as Thy rocky tomb
Was in a garden fair,
Where round about stood flowers in bloom,
To sweeten all the air, --


So, in my heart of stone
I sepulchre Thy death,
While thoughts of Thee, like roses blown,
Bring sweetness in their breath.


Arise not, O my Dead! --
As He whom Mary sought,
And found an empty tomb instead,
Her spices all for nought, --


O Lord, not so depart
From my enshrining breast,
But lie anointed in a heart
That by Thy death is blest!


Or if Thou shalt arise,
Abandon not Thy grave,
But bear it with Thee to to the skies --
A heart that Thou shalt save!


The Sexton's Tale, And Other Poems.
Copyright 1867
Sheldon And Company, New York.