Palms

Shout with loud Hosannas this glorious Sunday morn'.

With an ass to the city the Carpenter King traversed.

We know the end; but gone to those less versed:

To dust, reborn, the ashes on our head next year adorn.

Churches wave their palms blindly, year after year,

But to many the tale grows worn.

Rows of devouts with the same fronds plead little.

For all they care, should flail with corn.

Newcomers too are similarly thirst

(For more than a superficial device).

We need to rebirth the Sunday Holy Week forlorn.

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