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
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