My soul is satisfied as with a rich feast,
and my mouth praises you with joyful lips
when I think of you on my bed,
and meditate on you in the watches of the night;
for you have been my help,
and in the shadow of your wings I sing for joy.
This Sunday is a strange mix of celebration and sadness. The liturgy begins with the festive celebration with palms but ends with the story of Christ’s passion. We gather with the sweetness of Hot Cross Buns and go home in silence.
The parade turns into a walk of shame. How could we have done that? How could we have crucified the one who came to us with all the gifts of heaven?
We are like the poet of this psalm, lying on his bed thinking about all these things. The poet, however, is “satisfied as with a rich feast.” He lies down at night filled with contentment and quiet joy. He feels the wings of the seraphs around him. He is held in the arms of God.
And, in truth, we should feel that, too, on Palm Sunday. Though the story contains sorrow upon sorrow at a humanity that pounds the nails, it is also a story of perfect love. Transcendent love. Holy love. Perfect faithfulness. Wondrous mystery. Here is the face of God who meets a murderously rebellious humanity with mercy.
There is joy there, in the shadow of the cross – joy that marvels in the night on the wonder of heaven’s perfect love.
And we – we have been satisfied with a rich feast; we have shared the bread of the kingdom.