Day of Palms

Original sin etched on soulsnapo2014button1
this frigid Day of Palms.
Frozen teardrops fused
to bare limbed trees,
burgeoning buds of promise.

On this day and long ago,
he rode into a different town.
The beginning of an end
to make us whole
without our sin for blame.

Why so brutal and a savage death?
His simple words to remember,
there is no privilege to be earned
just passionate love surrendered.

.

.

.

Author’s Note:

Today is Palm Sunday.

Spring made a short stay of it. A little rain this morning turned into a snowy, wind howling storm.

If you are interested in learning more about this poem, please visit my blog Be Still… and click on Palm Sunday, Frozen.

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