Palm Sunday 2016

I open the gate
to the walled city
of my heart and

I cry:
"Son of David,
I have nothing to offer a King,
only my torn cloak
and branches that I have cut to
shade the sun!"

I lay my lowly offerings at your feet and watch as you pass.
Your linen garment shines Crimson
in the dawn;
your bowed head and kind eyes remind me
that I will always have a place at your table.

My funeral song turns to a hymn of praise:
Hosanna! Hosanna!

By Lara Stoudt