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Some call it Palm Sunday,
some call it Willow.
The day the Christ rode
into Jerusalem
as if on a pillow:
treated like a king
palm fronds swaying
over His donkey,
flowers strewn,
trumpets playing.
Not four days passed,
the twelve shared His food
a Last Supper spoiled
by betrayal—for 30 pieces,
so horribly crude.
In the garden,
He sweated and prayed
till the soldiers came
and Judas betrayed.
Peter’s sword He stayed.
For 30 pieces, the traitor hanged
himself, far too late.
The Christ had been taken,
the apostles dispersed.
This had to be His fate.
Betrayed by one,
denied by another,
mocked by the crowds
that chose Barabbas
as their druther.
Some call it Palm Sunday,
some call it Willow.
The day the Christ rode
into Jerusalem
as if on a pillow.
The palm fronds are gone
the donkey forgotten,
the crown made of thorns,
the music—whips...
a parade so misbegotten.
April 09, 2023
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