On that very first Palm Sunday,
The one with the adoring crowd,
And the donkey ride for Him,
The sight must have been something to behold.

They had been waiting for Him,
For what must have seemed like ‘forever,’ really.
Zechariah wrote about His arrival, hundreds of years before.
Yes, the prophet had said that He would be showing up.
He’d come riding into town on a donkey.
And so, the people of Israel waited.
And waited.
And waited.

Generations came and went.
Babies were born, and grew to be old,
And those old ones finally died, waiting for His coming.

No wonder, when He finally rode into Jerusalem,
They were ready for the party to start.
True, He didn’t look like much of a man,
His legs thrown over the side of a donkey,
But then, Isaiah had mentioned there was nothing beautiful or majestic about his appearance,
Nothing to attract them to him.

No matter, now.
He had finally arrived.
Let the ‘hallelujah’ chorus begin.
Throw down the coats, as a sign of honor.

And, don’t forget the palms.
By all means, shout ‘Hosanna to the Son of David,’
And wave those palms as if your life depended on it.

No question about it.
Palms are an essential part of this week’s story:
Their palms, the fickle ones the crowd waved on Sunday.
They would forget all about those waving palms by Friday.

But what of His palms?
Both of them.

.Fastened by nails on Friday.
In just a.few days, no waving of his palms.
Instead, arms outstretched in love.
And the names of the redeemed, … etched in blood.

“Can a mother forget the baby at her breast
and have no compassion on the child she has borne?
Though she may forget,
I will not forget you!
See, I have engraved you on the palms of my hands ….”

(Isa. 49:15, 16)

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