Holy Week

It begins with an entrance
He comes prophecy- fulfilling
Riding on a donkey.
Does he still carry the fragrance
Of Mary's anointing?
His followers rejoice
Praises and blessings echo
But he knows the crowd is fickle.

Passover, a sacred meal shared
"Thus bread, my body, this wine, my blood"
A servant King who washes feet - 
Even the betrayer's.
Do they know he is the Passover Lamb?

Anguished prayers in a dark olive grove.
Perfect submission. Betrayal and capture.
Mocking, beating, interrogation.
Friends fled, the one who stayed denying him.

A crescendo of pain, hung on the cross,
Still loving, still forgiving,
Still promising heaven to the penitent.
The leaders, the pious, smirking -
He will not challenge or trouble them now.
Darkness of the land and of the soul - 
Where now is his Father?
His followers watch, hopeless
At the cry " it is finished!"

Next day, a quiet day
Of mourning and preparation.
They had seen him laid in the tomb
Now they will do love's last offices for him.

Sunday, early, walking to the tomb
The women carry spices and unguents
Their scent drifting on fresh morning air.
But the tomb is empty. No body to anoint.
Then suddenly, radiant visitors -
"He is not here, he is risen!"
They rush to tell disciples
Who come, see, but go without understanding.

But they will learn
The Lamb died meekly, to save us
The Lion rises roaring, to power us
And Hell trembles.