Poems (Shipton)/The Crown of Thorns

by Anna Shipton

THE CROWN OF THORNS.

"Ye shall drink indeed of my cup, and be baptized with the baptism that I am baptized with."—Matt. xx. 23.
"Unto you it is given in the behalf of Christ, not only to believe on Him, but also to suffer for His sake.—Phil. i. 29.

Take it meekly, wear it gladly,
 Holy ensign of our faith!
Doth the exile wander sadly,
 Freed from danger, and from death?
   As his footstep homeward turns,
   Little recks he of the thorns.

Sing then loudly, ransomed spirit,
 Let the captives hear thee sing;
Thou the Promise shalt inherit,
 Wandering child of Israel's King.
   Think of Him: then, bending down,
   Take thy cross, and wear thy crown.

Thou art lonely—He was lonely;
 Dost thou at thy lot repine?
Thou thy burden bearest only;
 But He bore His grief—and thine.
   Yea, for thee that crown was worn,
   'Twas thy sin that wove the thorn.

Priestly pomp, and princely splendor,
 Greet not Him who came to save.
Doth the earth her tribute render?
 All she gives Him is a grave:
   Gold nor gem His brow adorns,
   Nothing but a Crown of Thorns.

Hands outstretched, the sinner seeking,
 Eyes that wept o'er human woe,
Lips but love and pity speaking,
 Mark the path He trod below.
   While His love the alien scorns,
   Child, bless thou the Crown of Thorns!

Track His footsteps, thou shalt borrow
 Light, that loneliest life endears;
Glory gilds the crown of sorrow,
 Washed with blood, and bright with tears.
   Not unseen His loved ones mourn,
   Known to Christ is every thorn.

Dost thou murmur? dost thou wonder
 Why this path He bade thee tread?
He who reigns in glory yonder
 Had not where to lay His head.
   Though thy pathway seemeth dim,
   Yet it leads to heaven—and Him.

Sinful soul! with cords I bound Him,
 Till upon the cross He died;
With the thorny chaplet crowned Him,
 And that crown He sanctified.
   Welcome, then, the crown of shame,
   Which for me on Jesus came.

Is it meet a homeless stranger
 Rest within that world should gain,
Free from sorrow, free from danger,
 Where his Lord and King was slain?
   Christian pilgrim, be content
   With the desert and the tent.

Take thy crown, for Christ hath blessed it;
 If thy weary heart should fail,
On the Rock of Ages rest it;
 Gates of hell shall not prevail.
   Shrink not, though the world may scorn,
   Christ hath numbered every thorn.

Take it gladly, crown of glory;
 Angels, with admiring eyes,
Read redemption's wondrous story:
 Now the conflict—then the prize.
   Follow Him, whose bleeding brow
   Gave the right to wear it now.

Every tear the Saviour numbered,
 Every woe hath Jesus weighed,
Nor His love or care hath slumbered
 Since He placed it on thy head,
   Soul, by tribulation driven,
   Child of God, and heir of heaven.

O my soul! do thou surrender
 Sorrow's chaplet to His care,
For I know His love so tender:
 Not one thorn too much is there.
   Let each wound a whisper be,
   " Take thy cross and follow Me."

Lamb of God, and Man of Sorrow,
 Shed Thy Holy Spirit down;
For the night must have its morrow,
 And the thorns are still a crown.
   If reserved for only Thine,
   Let the thorny crown be mine.

Lo, I take it! On my weakness
 Look Thou, Lord, in pity down;
Let me learn Thy holy meekness,
 Fit me here to wear the crown.
   Thou wilt leave me not forlorn,
   Myrtles shall supplant the thorn.

When it presses me the sorest,
 When the bitter cup I sip,
Let me feel the crown Thou worest
 Gives the sweetest fellowship:
   Diademed with rubies rare,
   Precious blood-drops sparkling there.

Teach me, Lord, the hands that wove it
 Wove it not without Thy will;
Bless it, Lord, and I shall love it:
 Through the thorns I see Thee still.
   Thou in grief art ever nigh;
   I will wear it patiently.