Don’t ask me to speak of victory.
Don’t ask of me a song;
don’t demand a shout.
My praise today is quiet.
There is no victory in the violence
I have just witnessed.
He, to whom I gave all I had—
mind, heart, trade, and time—
He, whom I knew was the One,
is gone.
Hung like a thief on a Roman cross,
upon the Hill of Bones.
Peter is gone. The Zebedees are home.
Thomas has gone back to the sea.
Forward is not a way I can see,
yet y’all ask for a song?
A shout of praise from me?
It is Passover, I know.
But I feel like I have lost the Lamb.
My praise today is a question:
What could I have done differently?
The mist clouds my eyes.
Today is Saturday,
the day after the Passover.
Yesterday, I believed in victory,
but in the silence of today—
don’t ask of me a song.
Don’t demand from me a shout.
He didn’t seem to hear
our cries of Hosanna.
And maybe, just maybe...
there is no victory today.