A sacred march to town,
with seating on a donkey’s colt;
A path of palms thick-strewn,
yet soon to be awash in tears;
Joyous songs of children
echoed by the very stones.
A crowning for the King,
a regal purple robe as well:
A throne erected just for Him —
at thirty silver pieces — cheap!
And just so everyone will know,
a sign is placed above His head.
A fallen crown lies still;
the sacred march has reached its end.
Sobs replace once-happy songs
and silent stones speak joy no more.
An empty throne remains,
its King to enter other realms
As we, amidst the barren scene
are left, in faith, to watch and wait.