It was a triumphal entry:
the whole city was in turmoil.
There was a donkey.
And a colt.
There were crowds, cheering;
that would soon change.
Cloaks were spread on the road.
Blood would be spilt later.
There were branches from trees.
He was travelling toward a wooden cross.
The crowd cried out: “Son of David!”
Later, they’s cry: “Barabbas!”
“Who was this man?” some asked.
“Jesus, from Nazareth, in Galilee,” said others.
Amid memories of cloaks and branches,
below the fading noise,
some still ask, then turn away;
some see him and think they know.
Hope and expectation soars
but who are we really seeking?
Our King comes humbly,
upsetting the usual protocols of power.
It is always a triumphal entry,
and always causes turmoil.
