I recently saw the sharp contrast between Palm Sunday and Passion Week described as “liturgical whiplash,” which seems just about right. The day following Palm Sunday always leaves me contemplative, struck anew by the fickleness of the crowd as they turn from cheering to jeering, from “Hosanna!” to “Crucify him!”
But because we know how the story ends, there is always a glimmer of hope through the dark valleys of Holy Week. I did my best to capture this in the following sonnet, which I wrote last year and revised today.
Crushed
Look now how all the branches left behind
Are pummeled into papery pavement
By the twice-tracking feet of all who went
Away in search of miracles and signs.
Now any that are left of those bright leaves
Expel vain puffs of putrid dirt and air.
They call, as wisdom, to the passers there,
"You, too, shall be as dust blown by the breeze."
But these browned boughs will soon be blessed to feel
(Though bruiséd, bent, and broken by the crowd
That gathers once again and twice as loud)
The crushing pressure of the promised heel.
Though cloaks and hands are washed, the palms retain
These signs: faint hoof-prints joined by bloodied stains.
Ryanne Molinari 