The king rode into town in a covered chariot, hidden from the mob, seen only by slaves. His soldiers led him to the royal palace, not so fine as Tiberias but good enough for the time of the Festival.
The governor rode a warhorse, standard-bearers waving the flag. And people threw stones.
Then the prophet rode a donkey through crowds that shouted praise, waved palm fronds, lifted children high and threw their cloaks down to the ground.
“Tell them to be quiet,” said the official, but Jesus said no. If the crowds fell silent then the stones would sing instead.
Psalm 118:26 “Blessed be he that cometh in the name of the LORD…”
The streets were always crowded with parked cars on Palm Sunday; the parking lot filled with parishioners holding palms. We’d march and sing out of tune with the timing all wrong. Then we’d file into church ready for worship.
The reading had to be the start of the Passion. I hear my Dad’s voice still in the narrator’s part—chosen for his teacher’s cadence. Then we, the crowds, shouted “Hosanna!” knowing full well that come Friday we’d be yelling “Crucify!”
One thing I couldn’t fail to learn—it was me that sent Him to die, and He died for me.