Kairos and chronos
They laid palm branches on the ground, Jerusalem rung out with the sound of praise for the victor that they’d found; and yet it was not time.
Deliverance at last for Judah’s land has come, they thought, by the strong hand of this one against whom surely none could stand; and yet it was not time.
So they played their harp and played their lyre and hymns and praise rose ever higher and they crowded to him to admire; and yet it was not time.
Surely this man has brought us peace! He’ll lift up Judah from our knees! Come welcome him, all Maccabees; and yet it was not time.
And yet it was not time, so hist’ry sang its woeful rhyme: liberty, captivity, joy turned hate-proclivity, until, when time grew full,
they laid palm branches on the ground, Jerusalem rang out with the sound, of praise for this victor that they’d found; and it was nearly time.
“Deliver Him to Roman hands,” they cried, “spill His blood on Judah’s land, beat Him ‘til He cannot stand;”” and finally, it was time.
And finally, it was time, when hist’ry’s every woeful crime, each penalty, captivity, at last was turned to liberty at last, all paid in full.