The persecuted bear a crown of flame,
Through jeers and stones, their spirits rise unbound,
A world of scorn heaps ashes on their name,
Yet in their wounds, a sacred light is found.
No spear can pierce the hope within their breast,
Though chains may bind and bitter winds may bite,
They walk through fire, by heaven’s promise blessed,
Their tears like stars ignite the endless night.
The mob may roar, the whip may carve its tale,
But grace anoints their suffering with gold,
Each scar a gate where mortal fears grow pale,
A kingdom gleams beyond the tempest bold.
For those who bleed beneath oppression’s rod,
Theirs is the realm, the kingdom of our God.

Beneath the cross, where shadows bled and grew,
A lone disciple stood, his heart a stone,
While others fled, their courage torn in two,
He lingered there, in grief’s unyielding moan.
The sky turned black, a shroud of anguished cries,
The nails, the spear, the weight of sin bore down,
Yet John remained, with tear-streaked, burning eyes,
A witness bound by love to Christ’s torn crown.
No thunder shook his feet from that dark hill,
Though fear like thorns sank deep into his breast,
His soul, a flame, held fast by sacred will,
Amid the storm, he found a fragile rest.
One heart stood firm where others’ faith was lost,
Hold near the cross no matter what the cost.