This crown of thorns,
Alone we are together,
Doing and doing,
Pressing deeper and deeper,
This crown of thorns,
Digging and digging,
Reaper after Reaper,
Arresting the rested,
Blood covered horns,
Some of us are air,
Some of us are water,
Some of us are ground,
Bleeding under this bloody crown of thorns,
Mustering bloody madness,
Pastoral dreams accompanied by orchestral sadness,
Mastering the profoundly  ripening mustard,
Inventing every rounded moment,
Pride streaming from our eyes,
Each dreamy breath a gift from Almighty God,
Every heartbeat a flower blooms in Eden,
Relevance in stride,
So our white togas turn red from the inside,
Not so much elegance but tired gloom,
Fused together by fiery life,
Confused views from another changing room,
Where we are arranged icebergs,
Ranging haplessly,
Strangely bashed into bits and pieces,
Swept further apart as each tide turns,
So much iceberg glory,
Far out on the storied sea,
Wearing our crested crown of thorns,
Bearing a blessed cross with me,
Invested we sail away,
Full of arresting joy,
Blowing festive horns,
Trusting freedom will stay,
Allowing our wounded hearts to heal,
Diving blind into that abyss,
Floundering souls navigating chilling love,
Astounding love and lust far out at sea.