The Prints of Peace

No diadem adorns,
Save for a crown of thorns.
No mirth or joyful song,
Drowns out the jeering throng.
The crowd sits cruelly by,
Only to watch Him die.
They gnash their teeth on Him,
While He yet prays for them.
‘Father, their sins forgive.’
‘I die that they might live.’

A soldier looking on,
With all his doubts now gone.
The One upon the tree,
Was who He claimed to be.
He falls down on his face,
He owns his deep disgrace.
‘When you prayed on the tree,’
‘Were you praying for me?’
Soon his questions all cease,
He sees the prints of peace.



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