A Ballad of Holy Week: (After a German Folk Poem)

AND how will Sunday find you, Son,
outside the city’s ring?
— Palms will cushion my donkey’s feet
because I am a King.

Surely they will throne you, Son,
upon the following day!
— I shall be still a vagabond,
my way a houseless way.

What will you be on Tuesday, Son
of royal and holy birth?
— A prophet to preach before the world
the passing of Heaven and Earth.

And how will Wednesday serve my Son,
the scion of David’s loins?
— Wednesday will have me bargained and sold
for thirty silver coins.

What will you be on Thursday, Son,
my Son both stern and sweet?
— Why, I must be a Paschal lamb
for twelve poor men to eat.

What tidings, Son, what tidings, Son,
will Friday have to bear?
— A Mother’s Son, a Father’s Son
is nailed into the air.

On Saturday I fear my Son
will never walk the ground!
— Mother, a seed must first be lost
before increase is found,

But Easter Sunday morn will come
when you may lift your head
to sing that Christ has proved his boast
by rising from the dead,

And you will know him for the King
of this and every land —
A crown of gold upon his head,
a banner in his hand!