We wave our palms,
our cheers made dark
with tears unbidden,
crying “Save us, please,”
our cruelty barely hidden.
Soon enough we will betray.
Behind our walls
we wail, we wait
we dig graves
where no one
will congregate.
We watch the future
shrouded, we lament:
this is not
what we meant,
this pain
we long to avoid.
Inside our hollow “Hosannas”
there is no sound. A void.
We gaze at the ground,
at the grave,
at our fears, the sharp edges
of our tears. Who might save,
might touch that wound?
Amid our sorrow,
our hate,
in our doomed Jerusalem
we wait.

And the little man
of God, of grace,
unafraid to enter,
to embrace
in love
as we wait
toward the gate.

Steve Garnaas-Holmes
Unfolding Light

April 2, 2020

Your Cart
  • No products in the cart.