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.
