By Yasen Vedrin
(The Bird Within You)
Like a motive, precise and defined,
True in text, though interpreted rarely,
The sharp crown made of thorns intertwined
On Christ’s Head in the art I see clearly.
And I’m filled with a sorrowful word,
From the heavy, dark questions arriving:
Did this Head, of my Savior and Lord,
Deserve exactly this crown for surviving?
Is it not the true symbol of shame
Of an epoch of blindness and hating?
Blackest thorns to my God shall I name,
When on cross my own "self" is abating?
Who will reach out his hands in deep grief,
To tell God with a humble emotion:
"Since Your Love died for my own relief,
Give me all of the thorns with devotion!
Let me feel all the sorrow and loss!
Let this malice pierce into my spirit!
But for You – a crown woven from moss
And sweet flowers will shed all its merit.
May You dwell in the joy of the field!
In delight of the Myrrh and the scent!
And let Heaven's Eden be unsealed,
Making joys for You never be spent…
Your great Mind, ever Holy and high,
Well deserves a bright, radiant crown.
But the thorns – they are mine till I die,
To find hope where Your Throne is set down.
Let me carry this wreath of dismay,
Just as You on Golgotha have borne!
And the heavens above me will stay,
So my spirit implores You, reborn…"
This deep faith has been burning for long,
Lighting fires of truth in my chest.
No sharp thorn can disrupt my clear song,
Nor the godless who put me to test.
I’ve a Holy blue sky far above!
I’ve a King in the Heavenly Story!
And a Crown on a Head full of love
Lights up Zion in gold-shining Glory!
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