He walked the road with splinters bare,
A crown of thorns, a whispered prayer,
Not bound by nails, but love’s own chain,
He bore the cross, embraced the pain.
Not just to suffer, not for fame,
But called by heart, not just by name
A fire within no flood could drown,
A King who laid His glory down.
His passion burned beyond the wood,
Beyond the “must,” beyond the “should.”
For every soul, He saw the cost
A shepherd weeping for the lost.
It wasn’t pain He sought to find,
But love that tore through space and time.
He longed not for the pain itself,
But for the hearts upon the shelf.
This was His passion — fierce and wide,
To bridge the gap, to break our pride.
To bleed was not His final goal,
But to ignite the sleeping soul.
So when I see His outstretched hands,
I see the love that understands
Not duty’s weight or blind reaction,
But Christ’s own passion for passion.
Sr. Emmanuella Dakurah. HHCJ (Sister communicator)
