The garden. A place of beauty.

Sun filtering

Through tree-stretched shelter.

Leaves softly cushioning,

Blooms, delicately adorning.

The garden is beauty.

 

But in the garden of the night

Beauty lies deeper.

A figure, bowed and pleading;

Life offered in sweat and blood

While friends sleep.

This garden, too, is beauty

 

A robe. A garment of honour.

Finest thread, finely woven.

The costliest of pigments

Stained deep, dark.

A vestment of eminence

The robe is beauty.

 

But on these scourged shoulders

Honour is yet unrevealed.

A soldier’s cloak

Carelessly draped.

Crowing mockery pierces,

While The Lamb silently waits

This robe, too, is beauty.

 

The crown. A majestic gilding

Artisan fashioned  

From Earth’s precious quarry.

Its gleaming glory

A royal entitlement.  

The crown is beauty.

 

But on this bloodied brow

The crown of Genesis’ curse

Only lances and stabs.

Crafted by man to taunt,

To the Suffering Servant,

This crown, too, is beauty.

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