Poeticdiplo

Soft Hosanna!

It is Palm Sunday.

My heart, broken and sore,

cries softly: Hosanna, Lord.

In the folds of life-endings,

the untidy mess of rejection,

and the throes of new beginnings—

stuttering and shaky—

my Hosanna is soft.

Unlike the noise of the throngs,

I throw no garments for His donkey.

I simply lay my pieces down

for the One who can put them back.

For the Mender who rides a colt,

for the Healer who knows this loss,

for the Keeper and the Lifter,

I lay them all down.

I scan them as if they are not my own

and softly cry into the deep:

Hosanna, Lord.