On The Palm Sunday Poem by Ifeoluwa Philips

Dedicated to the massacre at Plateau state(29/3/2026)


A palm branch was bartered
at the price of cold blood.
The gates of Jerusalem overflowed
with a bitter blend of tears and blood.

Garments of pain were strewn across the temple path,
Hosanna twisted into songs of sorrow.
Judas could not wait for Good Friday—
he butchered the body and flooded the streets with blood.

Before His hour, He was already displayed,
a lullaby of joy on the mother's tongue died swiftly.
Spiritless Son, a string of sorrow in His mother's hands—
Hosanna now sung to the rhythm of crucifixion.

A fainted spirit could not raise the dead soul.
On Palm Sunday, flesh lay flat,
a red carpet for Judas to ride upon,
flooding the ground with spirited wine.

Jesus arrived late to Jerusalem,
but Judas preached the sermon in wrath.
Palms stained with cups of tears,
the same hands washed in a basin of blood.