|Found on Google Images|
FLASH FICTION PROMPT
They blister, they burn, they tear.
Bleed me, break me, tear me.
Piercing the skin, stinging the soul. I am left with nothing, but an empty, ugly hole.
These torns in my side, are nothing.
The scars I bear are nothing.
For on His head, He wore them--in a crown of plain mockery. They meant for it to hurt. For His sake, His pain, and His blood. I am purchased, redeemed and loved.
(c) Sara Harricharan