Forgetting the parade from just a few days ago, the trampled green of dusty palms leave a bitter question begged: was your worship a charade?
The streets, as if they found their wond’ring aloud absurd, answer back, “Barrabas!” the only name now dripping from the crowd’s
lips parched of grace. Oh, to be a face among the sea of fans when he rode through the gates. “Hosanna!” filled this place.
What happened? Perplexed, my heart and Him arrested. A sudden turn or steady course of a nation ill-dressed for her intended exodus?
Take pity, sacred city, if the hill we make Someone else die on cries out, acquitting He who knew no sinning.
Are we, after sitting on your grass, at His feet, now admitting this disillusioned self-defeat: we know not what we do? Lord, help us if that's true.
Take pity, sacred city, for we know not what we do.