1 To mock your reign, O dearest Lord,
they made a crown of thorns,
set you with taunts along that road
from which no one returns.
They could not know, as we do now,
how glorious is that crown,
that thorns would flow'r upon your brow,
your sorrows heal our own.

2 In mock acclaim, O gracious Lord,
they snatched a purple cloak,
your passion turned, for all they cared,
into a soldier's joke.
They could not know, as we do now,
that though we merit blame,
you will your robe of mercy throw
around our naked shame.

3 A sceptered reed, O patient Lord,
they thrust into your hand,
and acted out their grim charade
to its appointed end.
They could not know, as we do now,
though empires rise and fall,
your kingdom shall not cease to grow
till love embraces all.