Thorns

There was no hint of beauty
in the crown of thorns He wore,
as His sacred head was bleeding
and the crowd cried out for more;
No loveliness in Jesus
as He hung on Calvary’s tree,
but the cross He bore
and the thorns He wore
make Him beautiful to me.

When the thorns that I encounter
pierce my heart with grief and pain,
I will lift my eyes to Jesus;
He’ll renew my strength again.
As I lean upon my Jesus
He will make my trials grow dim;
and my heartfelt plea
and my bended knee
make me beautiful to Him.

Poem by Connie Faust