They’re waving at you.
wave to flag you down
like witnesses at a motorway pile-up.
They want to you to fix the injured and dying.
You can cure them.
You can bring the dead back to life.
Some are waving Hello.
They want you to come to their party.
They want to show you off to their friends.
They know some very open-minded Pharisees.
They are sure they will be reasonable about it all
once you explain.
Some wave the team colours.
They want you to stuff the opposition,
they think its time that our guys won.
Some wave business cards.
They want you to endorse their products.
You are hot property for chat shows.
Your position statements will be prepared for you.
You will be dressed by Armani and Calvin Klein
for your limitless media opportunities.
wave to warn you.
They want you to take care.
They’d like to re-direct your route
away from likely trouble spots.
They have your best interests at heart.
Some wave in desperation as if
you are their only hope.
Some wave their fists.
You were the wrong answer to their prayers
and their disappointments have blossomed into anger.
You could have sorted the whole bloody mess
and here you are out donkey-riding.
Ride on until
the temple looms in front of you.
Walk the last few steps
towards the tables
where religion is prepared.
Push them all over.
Leave no room for doubt.
Walk on into
the dark garden,
the false kiss,
the clever trap,
the rigged trial,
Walk on until
there is no more you can do except
doing what it was
you came to do
for all of them.
Written in 1997, revised for Palm Sunday, March 2012.
© Godfrey Rust 1997, email@example.com. See here for permissions.