The stunted thorn tree
Crouched on the windy hill,
Covered in the wrappings of traders’ tills,
Looking hunted and out of place,
Exposed and badly labelled cruel.

This, Lord, was what happened to the crown
Of thorns, brought here by merchants of lead.
A white thorn tree was sprung, shorter nails,
But still sharp enough to hold a man.

The cup makers took branches to carve out bowls.
Brother Barnabus made a chalice for the monks from the wood,
And in the white chapel used it to commemorate
The Thursday supper. Just as if the thorns still cut
The cup spilled over with the blood of sacrifice.