It was a triumph, of sorts.
A great rejoicing that bright day.
Under the sun that too soon set.
Beneath Him a colt, patient
And willing, itself a parable
For those, those few, who heed such things.
Pilgrims without pilgrim hearts
They thought that they had arrived
But pilgrimage never ceases.
City dwellers scorned these
Uncouth travellers, amused
And puzzled by their cries.
Son of David from Nazareth?
A small town Messiah for
Small town people.
Jerusalem knows better.
Palms in His path, tales and
Rumours of miracles in the air
And hopes of war and battle in
Minds of a conquered people.
His name was on every tongue
As He was on His colt
And the beast was wiser than the men.
In Bethany He had been anointed
For His death but who, in this mad crowd
Remembered that? Conquering
He would conquer.
Victory Hosannas would soon be heard
So they supposed who saw their humble,
In all that joyful throng, that joyful day,
Who could foresee that a victory cry
Would strangely resemble the weeping
Of a mother cradling her dear Son's corpse?
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