Hosannas do not ring out this year,
muffled behind masks, they whisper instead of shout.
The parade isn’t down streets of the city
but, shuffled in house slippers, and skipped down hallways by
children with more energy than room in the house.
Hosannas are not carried on the backs of donkeys during this pandemic,
rather, family pets, beloved dogs and cats carry the weight
of humble animal representation,
lumbering, loyal, faithful friends
bearing the burden of our loaded emotions.
Hosannas are not collective now. Ten-foot poles not palms are being waved.
Crowds are forbidden save in ICUs
where teams of humble heroes gather to rescue the perishing,
forcing breath though sluggish, congested lungs,
praying with paddles against heaving chests.
Hosannas used to mean to us “praise!”
Used to mean to us “triumph!”
Used to mean to us “we know the rest of this story and the ending is everlastingly good.”
Used to mean to us “Lent is finally over and Easter is only seven days away.”
“Hosanna” from quarantine whispers, “save.”
Hosanna, Save us.
Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the LORD.
Great Physician, save us.
Healer of the Nations, save us.
God of all Creation, save us.
Brought to our knees by this disease
Our Palm Sunday prayer pleads,
Hosanna. God save us.