Palm Sunday: The Ash Road to Hosanna

PALM SUNDAY: THE ASH ROAD TO HOSANNA

In the town where stones remember,

And dust clings like questions to tired feet,

A man rode on a donkey.

Not a warrior’s horse. Not a chariot.

But a beast of burden, like truth, like love, like sorrow.

Children ran with palms in their hands,

Their laughter thin like the veil between joy and pain.

Their mothers watched, hope heavy in their eyes,

As if this man would heal their grief,

Just by passing by.

Jerusalem, city of crowns and curses, 

Did not know what it asked for,

When it shouted, “Hosanna!”

A word for “save us,”

But not always from sin.

Sometimes from hunger.

Sometimes from Rome.

Sometimes from silence.

But no one knew that to be saved,

Would first mean to be broken. 

The donkey knew. So did the wind.

Even the stones beneath the man’s feet,

Ached with the weight of prophecy.

But the crowd, they saw a parade.

A chance to believe, if only for a day.

And belief, that fragile thread between heart and heaven,

Is sometimes held by people,

Who forget how to tie it.

Palm Sunday is no celebration.

It is a funeral disguised as a welcome.

It is the shout before the silence.

It is the kiss before the betrayal.

It is the beginning of the end that begins everything.

Myths speak of gods who demanded altars.

Oceans who asked for daughters.

Kings who ruled by fire.

But this Man, He walked straight into death.

To teach men how to forgive each other.

No thunder. No sword. Just blood, and prayer,

And the smell of olives in Gethsemane.

Across centuries, the story spreads.

In candlelit churches, mud chapels. 

Broken cities, and distant huts.

Some say He never lived.

Others say He never died.

But few can forget how the world paused,

At the weight of His walk.

We wave palms, but keep grudges.

We dress in Sunday’s best, 

But leave kindness at the door.

We kneel, but don’t surrender.

We sing, but don’t listen.

Palm Sunday is not about memory.

It is about mirrors.

Will you ride with Him,

If the road is not paved?

Will you shout “Hosanna”,

When you must carry your own cross?

Will you wait at the tomb,

With faith that trembles?

The family comes together, 

But not always in truth.

The meal is shared, but hearts stay far.

The prayers are said, but few are heard.

Because love is not in the leaves,

But in the letting go.

So if you must wave a palm, 

Make sure it’s not just a leaf

Let it be a vow. A whisper of peace.

A promise to walk, the Ash Road To Hosanna,

Even if the crowd forgets,

Even if the ending wounds,

Even if the King comes on a donkey, and not a throne.