Palm Sunday

Palm Sunday
Jerusalem

How could we’ve known
that day outside the walls
near the Lion’s Gate
our shawls on the street
the branches ripped from trees
the bells around our ankles
the dust stamped out of the earth
the brass on our lips.

‘t Was quite a shock
As he came down the mountain
the Light of the world
sitting on a foal crying
smaller and much thinner
than we’d hoped.

Some already returned
to the shade of the city
criers for smooth and strong.

Who dared to endure it for a week?
Who let his heart be
mucked out as a den of thieves?

As if we roared
ourselves free
that hot Friday fit:
not Barabbas
but him, him, him

Ready to crucify all
that seemed worrisome
and fouled up.

Translation: Trevor Scarse

Palmsnein
Jeruzalim

Wisten wy folle
dy dei bûten de muorre
by de Liuwepoarte
ús omslachdoeken op ’e dyk
de tûken fan de beammen skuord
de bellen om ’e ankels
it stof ut ’e ierde stampt
it koper oan ’e lippen.

It wie skrikken
doe’t hy de berch ôfkaam
it Ljocht fan de wrâld
siet op in fôle te skriemen
lytser en folle smeller
as dat wy hopen.

Guon sochten al wer
it skaad fan de stêd
roppers om glêd en krêftich.

Wa doarde it in wike út te hâlden?
Wa liet syn hert
útmeste as in rôvershoal?

As raasden wy ús frij
dy freedske hite hei:
net Barabbas
mar hý, hý, hý.

Ree om alles te krusigjen
wat de skyn fan nuodlik
en skânsearre hie.

© Syds Wiersma
Raffelwjok (Hispel 2016)