Gethsemane's Rose

“And the Word became flesh, and dwelt among us, and we saw His glory,
glory as of the only begotten from the Father, full of grace and truth.”
John 1:14

It was a rakish crown--twisted, you know;
the slender thorns didn’t look so cruel all
bound up like that. The people said he seemed
more clown than king. The blood, of course, hurt the
effect. It was a little gruesome for
a summer’s afternoon. Not that they weren’t
all used to seeing the Romans’ criminals,
but this was different. The city knew
his death was theirs, not Rome’s. And so they would
have rather laughed than winced, when they saw him.
They focused on the crown, pathetic and
so tragic-comic as it made him. Poor
fool going to his death, and he the claimed
Messiah. So what could he promise now?
When all was done they took the placard that
their governor had ordered, and disposed
of it. The King of Jews indeed. The throne
of David wasn’t for him, nor any such
imposter coming powerless, without
an army at his back. What had this one?
A prophet, and some fishermen, the love
of harlots, and the testimony of
known lunatics? No man would follow him
after his death. And if he’d really been
a king? What kind of coronation was
that? Suffering for celebration, thorns
for jewels—how could these be royal marks?
One must wonder what people would accept,
what kingdom could be worth, that crown.


1999?