The sun was high in the sky as we approached the gates of Jerusalem. The road was crowded, filled with pilgrims making their way to the city for the Passover. The air buzzed with excitement, with shouts of greeting and the sounds of animals being led to the temple for sacrifice. The city's walls rose tall and imposing in the distance, and beyond them, I could see the temple—a place that had been called my Father's house, though it had become a den of corruption. My heart was heavy with sorrow.
My disciples walked beside me, their steps quickening as we neared the city. They were full of anticipation, their eyes bright with hope. They still believed that this was the moment, that I would finally take my place as king and restore Israel to its former glory. They didn't understand that my kingdom was not of this world, that I had not come to conquer with a sword but with sacrifice. The weight of their misunderstanding pressed on me like a stone.
As we drew closer, the crowds began to recognize me. "It's Him!" they shouted, "Jesus of Nazareth! The prophet!" Soon, the people were gathering, pushing forward to catch a glimpse, their voices rising in a chorus of excitement.
I could see the joy in their faces, the hope in their eyes. They had heard of the miracles, of the healings, and of the teachings that stirred their hearts. To them, I was the Messiah, the promised one who would deliver them from the yoke of Roman oppression. But they could not see beyond their own desires. They did not understand what it meant to truly be saved.
A man handed me a donkey, and I mounted it, fulfilling the words of the prophet Zechariah: "Rejoice greatly, Daughter Zion! Shout, Daughter Jerusalem! See, your king comes to you, righteous and victorious, lowly and riding on a donkey."
The people began to throw their cloaks on the road before me, cutting branches from the trees and laying them down as I rode. They waved palm branches in the air, shouting, "Hosanna! Blessed is He who comes in the name of the Lord! Blessed is the King of Israel!"
The voices grew louder, the crowd swelling around me, the sound of their praise filling the air. But as I looked at them—at their joyful faces, their raised hands—I felt an ache deep in my heart. They were shouting for a king, but soon, these same voices would cry out for my crucifixion. Today, they hailed me as the Messiah, but tomorrow they would reject me, their hopes shattered when they realized I had not come to fulfill their earthly desires.
I could feel the tension inside me, the pull between love and sorrow. I loved them. I loved them deeply, more than they could ever know. I had come to save them, to heal their brokenness, to give them life. But they were blind. They could not see who I truly was. Their hearts were hardened, their eyes fixed on their own expectations. And that blindness would lead them to reject me, to turn their backs on the very one who had come to save them.
As we neared the city, the sight of Jerusalem took my breath away. The golden dome of the temple shimmered in the sunlight, the city sprawling out below it. This was the city of David, the place where God had chosen to dwell among His people. But it was also the city that had rejected the prophets, the city that had turned away from God's voice again and again.
My heart broke for Jerusalem.
I slowed the donkey, my eyes filling with tears as I looked upon the city that was both beautiful and broken. "If you, even you, had only known on this day what would bring you peace," I whispered, "but now it is hidden from your eyes."
I felt the weight of their blindness crushing me. How many times had I longed to gather them to me, like a hen gathers her chicks under her wings, but they were not willing. They had turned away, choosing their own path, and now the path of destruction was set before them. The city would fall. Its walls would crumble, its people would be scattered, and the temple would be destroyed. But worse than that, their hearts remained hardened, closed off to the very peace they longed for.
The people continued to shout and praise, oblivious to the sorrow in my heart. They were caught up in the excitement of the moment, unaware that they were hailing a king who would soon die. I wanted to cry out to them, to make them see, to open their eyes to the truth. But I knew they were not ready. Their hearts were not ready. The time would come when they would understand, but that time was not now.
We passed through the gates of the city, the noise of the crowd echoing off the stone walls. The narrow streets were packed with people, all turning to watch as I rode by. My disciples were elated, their faces full of joy. To them, this was the beginning of the victory they had long hoped for.
But I knew the truth. I knew that in just a few days, I would be betrayed, arrested, and condemned. I would be beaten, mocked, and crucified. The very people who shouted "Hosanna" today would shout "Crucify Him" tomorrow. And my heart ached with the knowledge of their rejection.
As we made our way through the city, I felt the tension rising within me—the tension between the divine love that flowed from my Father and the human pain of rejection. I loved them with a love that was beyond understanding, a love that would lead me to the cross. But as a man, I felt the sting of their rejection, the sorrow of their blindness. I knew the cost of their salvation, and I knew that many would still turn away.
My disciples led me to the temple, where I dismounted from the donkey and stood before the towering gates. The crowd had followed us, their voices still raised in praise, but I could feel the weight of what was to come pressing down on me. The time of celebration would soon give way to the time of suffering.
I entered the temple, the place that was meant to be a house of prayer, but as I looked around, I saw the corruption that had taken root. Money changers lined the courtyard, merchants selling animals for sacrifice, turning my Father's house into a marketplace. My heart burned with righteous anger, but I knew this was not the time for confrontation. That moment would come soon.
For now, I stood in the midst of the crowd, my heart torn between love and sorrow. Jerusalem, the city of destiny. The place where I would lay down my life for the very people who would cry out for my death. I had come to save them, but their eyes were blinded, their hearts hardened.
I longed to stay in the peace of divine love, to remain in the presence of my Father's glory. But I knew I must walk the path of suffering, the path that would lead to the cross. The weight of that knowledge pressed heavily on me, but I knew it was the only way.
I looked out at the people, at their joy, their hope, their blindness, and I whispered a prayer. "Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing."
And with that, I walked forward, my steps steady, knowing that the road to the cross had begun.