He left His Throne
To wear the thorns
And be slain
By mortal men
They tore his cloth
And among themselves cast a lot
He became a sheep
To save their souls
His skin was cut to slits
And with a heavy cross
He crossed the streets
Who rode on a royal colt
He was ordered to his destiny
For which He cried at Gethsemane
The owner of the vineyard
Was fed with vinegar
He asked for their forgiveness
Instead of His angelic forces
He said, “It is finished”
To remove their remotest blemish
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem