On Palm Sunday, the crowd did cheer,
With branches waving, hearts sincere.
“Blessed is He!” their voices rang,
As Jesus rode, their praises sang.
Hope filled the air, their spirits soared,
Little did they know what lay in store.
In the garden, shadows deepened,
With heavy heart, in prayer He wept.
“Take this cup,” His voice was frail,
Betrayed with a kiss, love’s bittersweet tale.
The night was cold, the betrayal stung,
The Savior’s path to suffering begun.
Before the rulers, He stood alone,
A crown of thorns, His blood was sown.
Stripped of dignity, mocked and scorned,
Yet in silence, His love was adorned.
With every lash, and every sneer,
He bore our sins, our pain, our fear.
The cross was raised on that fateful hill,
“Forgive them, Father,” echoed still.
With arms outstretched, He took our place,
In agony, He showed us grace.
Nailed to the wood, the skies turned gray,
The weight of the world, He bore that day.
The stone was rolled, the tomb sealed tight,
Despair cloaked the world in night.
But on the third day, the dawn broke clear,
“Why seek the living among the dead?”
In victory, the King had led,
The promise fulfilled, our salvation near.
From palms to pain, from death to grace,
In every trial, love found its place.
The Passion tells of a sacrifice profound,
A gift of love, in Him we’re found.
In His journey, we see our own,
Through suffering and loss, we are never alone.
By Elizabeth A Kaine