Forgetting the parade
from just a few days
ago, the trampled green
of dusty palms
leave a bitter question begged:
was your worship a charade?
The streets, as if they found
their wond’ring aloud
absurd, answer back,
“Barrabas!”
the only name now
dripping from the crowd’s
lips parched of grace.
Oh, to be a face
among the sea of fans
when he rode
through the gates.
“Hosanna!” filled this place.
What happened? Perplexed,
my heart and Him arrested.
A sudden turn
or steady course
of a nation ill-dressed
for her intended exodus?
Take pity,
sacred city,
if the hill
we make Someone else die on
cries out, acquitting
He who knew no sinning.
Are we, after sitting
on your grass, at His feet,
now admitting
this disillusioned self-defeat:
we know not what we do?
Lord, help us if that's true.
Take pity,
sacred city,
for we know not what we do.