Triumph

A poem

At the distant gate, a bottleneck.
The pilgrims cluster. Shouts hang on the breeze.
With their wispy fronds, the road they deck,
Then part, some falling awestruck to their knees.

Behold the man. Astride no noble steed,
But on a borrowed donkey, stepping small,
The word is carried, low. A king's decreed:
"Hosanna! Lord! Hosanna! Save us all!"

Through he rides and disappears inside
The walls. The sun seems brighter with him gone;
His greater glory paled celestial pride.
Though night may fall, awaiting is the dawn.