Throne of Thorns
A Poem on the Burning Bush and Divine Kingship
In deserts bare, where silence bleeds,
And thornbush bows in windless needs,
A spark ignites in tangled wood—
Not to destroy, but to make good.
Ehyeh Asher Ehyeh
No temple spire, no gilded dome,
But bramble’s clutch becomes God’s home.
No crown of gold, no seat of pride—
Just flame that speaks, and shoes untied.
Ehyeh Asher Ehyeh
The kings of men, in robes and lies,
Build towers tall that scrape the skies.
But power burns the hand that holds,
And smoke will choke what pride unfolds.
Ehyeh Asher Ehyeh
Yet here, where thorns and fire kiss,
A Voice declares: “You’re made for this.”
Not royal blood, nor royal name—
But barefoot soul, and holy flame.
Ehyeh Asher Ehyeh
The bush does not consume, it glows,
A secret throne the Spirit chose.
And from this blaze, the world’s undone—
A slave, a staff, a nation won.
Ehyeh Asher Ehyeh
So let your thorns be kindling bright,
For God still comes in flame, not might.
And every crown, no matter how high,
Will bow before the Lord Most High.
