Jesus, I imagine your hand
caressing the little donkey’s head.
An unbroken animal, soon to face a burden and great noise,
yet steadily carrying you to the gates of Jerusalem.
My thought travels to your burden,
just a few days later:
the weight of the cross
carried amongst the weeping and the jeering crowds.
And so the thought flashes into my mind –
no gentle hand to caress you,
I remember the woman who held out a cloth.
But you told her to weep for herself and all women,
Looking back there was
Palm Sunday and
Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord.
The days follow swiftly, too swiftly
and we are caught in the sober cruelty
of the first
How can we pray?
How can we even seek forgiveness
for the betrayal we make
unwittingly when we abandon you?
We watch you washing feet
and long to feel your touch on ours,
washing us clean.
We watch you sharing that last meal
and somehow, in this week,
of all weeks,
we sense the reality,
the wholeness of the offering.
We watch the disciples in Gethsemane
and strive to keep awake ourselves
we feel for them, not knowing exactly
what would come to pass
Jesus, in our hearts we know
that each of us would have been
For once we are at one with your close friends,
understanding their human frailty,
but wishing someone
would have gently caressed your head
before you were led out,
beyond the gate,
outside the wall
Reading: John 12:12-19; 13:1-20
STF 266 All the room was hushed and still
Prayers for April by Hazel Parsons