This April day, warm with unseasonable sun,
Will fill your heart with joy; this Sunday is just starting.
Bright blue sky, pales leaves, fresh flowers. Don’t be taken in.
The clue is in the bitter wind that's slicing through your skin.
His journey’s going nowhere. He might be riding now,
Over sacrifice of palms and cloaks thrown down along his road.
They’re all singing songs of welcome , waving, running by his side.
But very soon they’ll change their tune and call for him to die.
Then he’ll have to walk, Trailing through the dirt and grime,
Weighed down with pain and fear, sweat pouring off his face.
Those arms, once opened wide for healing and for blessing
Are now wrenched and nailed in place, paying for our trangressing.
How will it end? We know the answer. They did not.
We know the sun will rise again. For them the sky goes black.