The King Who Comes to Weep

Not with the legion’s armored tread,
Nor chariot’s iron shock,
He comes, where leaves and cloaks are spread,
The rider on the rock.

A borrowed beast, a throne of air,
The shouts of “Hosanna!” ring
Yet in that shout, the seeds of “Crucify!”
That soon the crowd will bring.

For they expect a conqueror’s sword
To break the Roman steel,
But He has come to be outpoured,
A wound that they might heal.

He rides not toward an earthly throne,
But toward a splintered tree.
His triumph is to stand alone
In Gethsemane.

The stones would cry if praise were stilled,
The prophets’ words unfurled:
Behold your King, by law fulfilled,
To save a fallen world.

He comes to where the Temple stands,
A house of prayer and light,
To cleanse with sacrificial hands
The thieves who stole the night.

He weeps for what His eyes behold,
The city, blind, yet dear.
For glory He will not withhold,
And judgment they will hear.

So let the branches wave today,
A veil before the pain.
For this King comes the narrow way,
To lose, that we might gain.

He knows the path: through shouts to scorn,
From palm to piercing nail.
A King who weeps, a God yet born
To make the broken whole.

Hosanna in the highest heaven!
Hosanna to the Lamb!
For on this road, our peace is given:
The cross of I AM.

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