Behold, your King is coming to you;
He is just and having salvation, lowly
and riding on a donkey, a colt, the foal
of a donkey—Zechariah 9:9
Little donkey of Bethany, foretold
in holy writ, you were born for this
moment. Tell me, do you feel His sobs
as you plod toward Jerusalem? Do you
tear, too? Are you aware of the drag
of His body, as the path grows steeper,
more treacherous, the rocks cutting
into your tender feet? Do you struggle
to stay close behind your mother, fearful
of a misstep, anxious over the mob’s pushing
and shoving and invading your space,
their clamor reverberating across the mountain
with a pitch and fever to awaken the dead?
Do you feel the breeze from the palm fronds?
An occasional sting on your youthful skin?
Are you smitten with the children, suffering
them near you, their evergreens and voices,
sweet, strewn along the path. Hosanna,
Hosanna, Hosanna in the Highest.
Surely, little beast of burden, your legs tremble
and your heart quivers—for upon the back
of the One you carry will soon rest the weight
of the world. Upon His back, the wrath of God.