Palm Sunday: a picture poem

O glad morning,
promised day, the day
you come to us, riding
to the holy city, Israel's king,
glorious through the Golden Gate. 

We cut the branches, and wave

your joy, your welcome as you ride, 

and shout your praises to the hills,

the Lord's messiah, David’s son, 

triumphant king, hosanna! We cast
our coats before you, carpeting your way.
Today if we kept silent even the stones
would shout the benediction of your name.

Come Friday, we will shout again,

and rend your clothes and call you 

king, and cut the thicker branches,

cypress, pine and cedar,

and fasten them 

with nails,

and

even 

the

sun

will

turn

to ashes,

repenting

the day.