There’s no green jacket
for this Master’s Sunday.
But there are green palm branches
waved by those in the gallery
who excitedly realize
the significance of what they are part of.

In “Amen Corner”
the tulips and azaleas trumpet their praise
as creation recognizes the glory of this holy moment.
It is a thing of beauty to behold.

The Champion joyfully acknowledges their cheers
as he drinks in the adulation of those
who line the fairways
that lead to the final flag.

It’s a surreal scene.
A sacred snapshot.
Men and women.
Old and young.
Followers and critics alike.
They all watch the drama
playing out before them in newsreel-like fashion.

But this victory procession
doesn’t lead to Butler Cabin at Augusta National.
Rather, it serpentines through
the cobblestone streets
of an ancient city.

The spontaneous parade
ends at an impressive Clubhouse
where (ironically) today’s Master
conferred with the local professionals
comparing scorecards decades previously
when he was but a boy of twelve.

But now is years removed
from his bar mitzvah.
The Scriptures read that day
have been fulfilled this day.
And yet,
all is not what you might imagine.

Vendors tables topple.
Angry words are spoken.
The rules committee is confronted
by the One signing autographs.
The Hero departs.
The crowds disband.

As the parade ends
a week begins
that will culminate
in what appears to be a tragedy.
This Master’s celebration
morphs to sorrow.
This Master’s glory portends more.