Not One in a Hundred

Not One in a Hundred

(“Many people spread their coats on the road for Jesus. Others cut branches in the fields and spread the branches on the road.” Mark 11:8)

He showed up exactly as they expected,
(minus, of course, trumpets, fanfare, military men
and glistening sword).
He rode in exactly as they held their breath,
(minus, a horse, a donkey instead, maybe well-fed,
and the first one to drive it off the lot.)

They rolled out the carpet, a green rug,
branch and leaf, fanning the air, a dozen close friends
shooing away the thrill seekers and autograph hounds,
making sure it all sounded proper and respectful,
no camera flashes, no popcorn stashes, no big gulps
(reverence, say silence, shout amends, foe and friends
alike, ascend the hill quietly; face it, piety should not leave you winded).

“Hosanna,” they shouted,
(Cohen wrote Hallelujah better)
not one in a hundred doubted
this was the day the chain letter
broke,
the fetters no longer choked the life
out of the shouts they had hung on
willow trees just until they were dry.

Whirling, the turbines of time swept their expectations
from dusty Palestine to scholars, politicians, pundits and
poets like me, scratching rhyme after rhyme. We want
Jesus in His prime to announce His intentions and
silence the pretentious so we can nap awhile.

Instead, days like today, and weekends like they
had then,
He lays Himself down, pierced hands and thorny crown,
quieting our hopes and devalues our collection of
autographs the saints have signed (just after their prime time
recording).

Instead, He takes us silent, and, while the universe holds
its breath for what seems a century or more,
when we are no longer looking,
opens the door and peeks past death straight into the eyes
of our definitions.