A Quiet Palm Sunday

On a humble donkey he once rode Thunderous crowds by the road Liberation they craved or A salvation he gave forth He rides into Jerusalem once more With no glare from two thousand years ago Fear has pulled back praisers out of his path There was no red carpet but marks of an invisible wrath On this Sunday, palms of praise are not seen The stones could not sing along to any hymn Only sounds of the clopping are heard The King rode on to the fate ahead A lone conqueror of sin and damnation He rides to war without a shield or ammunition With praise subdued by fear, he still rides to his crucifixion To die and rise again to save the world from a contagion