Palm Sunday

Into the City He rides; 

but not as conquering hero.

He rides not in majesty, 

but in soul-felt lowly sorrow.

He rides on a donkey’s foal 

caught up in the flow

of acclaim: of shallow 

celebrity and mirth,

His passion’s start will show

this fame’s full worth.

The eve of His last dark 

Passover draws nigh

and His sweet soul 

does languish with a sigh.

He knows full-well the fate 

of those who enter by this gate.

The prophets stoned, 

or cast down wells

to drown in irksome mud.ⁱ

He knows full-well His fate 

that’s set by entering this gate.

His body scourged and strung on high

to drain its Precious Blood.

He knows full-well the fate 

of sinners held behind the gate

of Hades – bound awhile – awaiting Him

to ’claim their hapless good.

We welcome Him 

with cheers and hollow hoots.

We greet our own expectations 

and sallow hopes.

Hosanna to the Son of David!

Hosanna liberating Prince!

Hosanna provider of our need!

Hosanna social reformer!

Hosanna to God’s prophet deer!

Hosanna kind and good teacher!

Hosanna wonder-working seer!

We cast our rags before his feet,

hoping that He’ll stoop and put them on

and what we most desire He’ll then become:

be re-made in our image, accept the gown

of our threadbare renown:

and justify our empty fabrication.

He passes by, ignoring our desires.

His eyes are fixed on a far greater prize:

His countenance incipient with glory:

the kind that’s only won through travail,

pain, passion, death and betrayal,

He is the spotless host:

the Lamb of God.

He alone may pass the veil.

He willingly enters the Temple.

Showing Himself to the priest,

He bows his head

and accepts the garland wreath

of our disaffected thorny wroth.

The sacrifice is now chosen,

the oblation sanctified:

the offertory complete and done.

iJer 38:5-6.