I have sat trying to write a proper reflection on the readings for this Palm Sunday for a while now, and my mind keeps returning to a 17th-century hymn written by the Anglican Samuel Crossman. Crossman says more in his poetry than I could in a reflection. I will simply let him speak for me this week.
My song is love unknown,
My Saviour’s love to me,
Love to the loveless shown,
That they might lovely be.
O, who am I,
That for my sake
My Lord should take
Frail flesh, and die?
He came from his blest throne,
Salvation to bestow:
But men made strange, and none
The longed-for Christ would know.
But O, my Friend,
My Friend indeed,
Who at my need
His life did spend!
Sometimes they strew his way,
And his sweet praises sing;
Resounding all the day
Hosannas to their King.
Then ‘Crucify!’
Is all their breath,
And for his death
They thirst and cry.
Why, what hath my Lord done?
What makes this rage and spite?
He made the lame to run,
He gave the blind their sight.
Sweet injuries!
Yet they at these
Themselves displease,
And ‘gainst him rise.
They rise, and needs will have
My dear Lord made away;
A murderer they save,
The Prince of Life they slay.
Yet cheerful he
To suffering goes,
That he his foes
From thence might free.
In life no house, no home,
My Lord on earth might have;
In death no friendly tomb,
But what a stranger gave.
What may I say?
Heav’n was his home;
But mine the tomb
Wherein he lay.
Here might I stay and sing,
No story so divine;
Never was love, dear King,
Never was grief like thine!
This is my Friend,
In whose sweet praise
I all my days
Could gladly spend.
O my Jesus… I am no better than the men and women of Jerusalem — I wave my palm branches and spread my clothes before you on Sunday, and by Friday morning my inconstant love and sinful selfishness have condemned you, the best friend my soul could possibly ask for. I see you judged by Caiaphas and Annas and Pilate, and I hide my face in my cloak and run away. I hear my own voice in the crowd, stupidly demanding your crucifixion, when all you have shown me is your love, deeper than the ocean, closer than my own breath, which has drowned my sinfulness again and again…
Dearest Jesus, the only true love of my heart, let my weakness, my infidelity, my self-preservation all die on the Cross with you once more; and hold me close to you, never to let me go.
Solomon Ip – St. Joseph Seminary, Edmonton, Alberta.
Fot. Jessica Favaro/Unsplash.com