Holy Week 2026

Tired and dusty, he climbs onto the little donkey,
The raggèd happy crowd walks beside, on aching feet.
At the other city gate, war horses and men in shining armour.
This crowd shouts: Hail! and Long live power and sharp swords,
and stacks of gold, and: March on, march on to victory!
The other crowd shouts, Hail! and long live our king!
(dangerous word).
While today, no horses, no donkeys, No king!
They march, in millions, that shout:
No killings, no wars, we dream of a prince of Peace.
Won’t work: they will kill him, soon, at the end of this week.
Sad, tired man, wanting to love and to heal;
he knows, foresees it all —that’s why he is so sad.
And you would not. And you would not.
Not know the things that belong to your peace.
And so your houses have become a desolation
Crashed, smashed into ruins
Rachel weeping for her children
because they are not.
Blood lands, wailing voices, battered school rooms.
When will they ever learn?

But on we go. March on, in our millions
to the bitter days, drink the cup of blood
they will surely kill him
And what then?
We shall wait, and hope