What Jerusalem and Brussells share in common
Happiness is trumped by heartache.
A victory parade ends
in a victim’s funeral procession.
History has a way of repeating itself.
Between Palm Sunday and Good Friday,
life happens.
Death, too.
Cries of joy give way to tears of grief.
A hero’s welcome morphs into a martyr’s farewell.
A beautiful scene is blindsided by a bloody act
that smacks of a Garden variety serpent.
Amid the brown and brittle palms (once green),
evil rears its ugly head.
Then as now, fear grips as terror strikes.
Those who search the grisly scene
find evidence of what they suspected.
Upon close examination, a calling card surfaces.
Satan’s fingerprints are everywhere.
Hope is held hostage. Death has defeated life.
Mourning has broken us
shattering any dream of normalcy.
The shards of sorrow cut to the core.
But Holy Week does not conclude on Friday.
This one week of the year is eight days long (not six).
The demons are dancing prematurely.
Though wrong seems to have won,
Right has not been left in the dust.
A grave cannot hold Him.
Christ is risen!
He is risen, indeed!
My Rhymes and Reasons 