Hymns For The Architect

A Palm Sunday Poem

He did not come
with thunder in his wake
nor banners draped in pride.
He came barefoot,
grace clinging to his heels,
dust settling on his tongue
the kind of king
the powerful call
a problem,
a protestor,
a man too common to crown.
He rode
not high nor heavy,
but near.
A borrowed donkey,
a low beast on a trembling road,
and the city watched
already sharpening its stones,
already naming him dangerous.
We laid down what we had:
not silks nor silver,
but coats worn thin,
branches broken
from the backs of trees.
And songs
oh, songs
stitched from sorrow and stubborn joy.
Hosanna.
Which means save us,
but also
we see you.
And isn’t that what we still need?
A Saviour who sees
the brown child behind bars,
the q***r teen at the edge of the pew,
the mother marching for clean rivers,
the hands raised high,
the knees pressed low,
the broken bread
of a system built to break.
He held no sword.
His voice bore no vengeance.
Only a gaze
fixed like flint on freedom.
And a heart
tender enough to break open
for all of us.
We cried hosanna
not because hope was certain,
but because
hope was all we had.
And maybe that aching, holy dare
is the miracle:
that in a world of Pharaohs
and Pharisees,
peace still dares
to ride in.