Much less a cloaked, handpicked donkey on a dusty road.
In two weeks, the leaves will dry to cracking, tucked behind a picture frame.
Palm Sunday.
Prim.
Spare.
Measured.
Where is the crowd?
Where the sweaty exultation?
Let Him enter the ancient doors,
The King of Glory!
Shout for joy, daughters of Jerusalem!
Instead, this rote crowd shuffles, trudges,
Singing in polite unison,
Missing the slow burn,
The threat of pregnant glory already poised at the temple veil.
Who is this King of Glory?
He is the Lord of Hosts!
Silly palms.
Too little then.
Too little now.
