The Colt, the Cosmos and the King

Flakes of pollen dust the backs of my black gloves like yellow stars. I am floating in a sea of colour: verdant green, bridal white, baby pink, the richest hues of deep purple. My white Arabian's legs are buried in the flowers, and he presses his nose forward, silken lips nibbling at the colourful blooms, a succulent snack. His long, pale mane falls over my hands like sunlight.

Twenty centuries ago, He looks up at the city where it will be finished. The city on the holy mountain, magnificent Zion, in all of her conquered splendor. He has great plans for this city, and not only this weekend. They chased Him out of this place with stones the last time He was here, but there is certainty in His eyes. He knows what He has chosen to do, even if it makes no sense to anyone except the Trinity.

The white Arabian snorts pollen from his wide nostrils and tosses his head, power flexing in his neck like a breaking wave that foams with mane. I giggle like a little girl. It is hard not to be a little girl, here among the flowers on a gleaming horse. Wonder elevates us to the faith of childhood. It makes our souls fall silent.

He tells His disciples about the donkey mare and her colt that stand tied in the village. He knows them well, though His earthly eyes have never been set upon them. He formed the colt inside his mother, the tiny hooves, the long ears, dusted him with soft grey fur and brought him forth into the world. He knows every wrinkle on the velvet muzzle. He watched him take his first wobbling steps, then learn to trot, to canter, to buck cheekily along behind his mother as she works. He tells the disciples what to say, what to do. They are wide-eyed and they are afraid, but they do as He says with an obedience that will come to define them despite the mistakes that lie ahead. It is not why He loves them; it is the product of His love.

I close my legs around my horse's sides and click my tongue. He snorts joyously with the glory of being a horse on an autumn day, and plunges forward. He has to leap to keep his legs from being ensnared by the whippy stems, but leap he does, with no fear, no hesitation. I bury my hands in his mane and feel the surge of his power carry me forward. I cannot stop smiling.

The colt gazes at the disciples with gentle brown eyes as they untie him. He is not a baby anymore; his legs and back hold the sturdiness of stalwart youth, but he has not yet been ridden, nor parted from his mother. The man asks where they are going. The disciples tell him that the Master has need of the colt. The colt knows what they mean, or he would never have left his mother. Nothing can fight like a donkey. But he does not fight. He follows, his long, silken ears tipped quietly to the sides.

The chestnut mare shimmers in the morning light. Her eyes are soft, curious. She nibbles at bits of flowers, then presses her pink nose into my hands and huffs out a break of hot air, fragrant with the cosmos she's just eaten. I run a hand over her scarlet coat. It glows like copper, like something polished, but it is as soft as a summer kiss.

He sees the trust in the eyes of the colt and smiles. If only they could have trusted Him as perfectly as this quiet little beast does, as all beasts do, then He wouldn't have to do this. But they are not beasts; they are made in His image, and He knew this would happen before He formed them from dust and breath. He exists beyond time. He felt the nails in His Hands even as He created them. He touches the soft neck of the donkey, not the velvet nose - He is the One who placed the whiskers there; He knows that the nose is almost painfully sensitive - and the donkey leans into His caress.

My friend is on the grey mare, the dappled one with the flowing white mane and fierce power. Her lavender dress streams over the mare's powerful flanks as they plunge through the flowers. She's laughing, a melodic sound, her face transfixed by the real and pure joy that some women find in the power of horses. Flowers lashed across her hands. Engulfed by the glee of being alive and magnificent, the mare bucks. My friend holds on, still laughing. We're all laughing.

Their cries now are Hosanna. Save us. They are thinking of the guards in red, the ones who watch with narrowed eyes as He rides up to the city gates. He knows that the guards have nothing to do with it, except that they are instruments of what is to come. He is here to save them, and the generations to come, from a far deeper evil. Hosanna. They throw down palm leaves on the road, throw down their garments to line His path. They think He is their King. They do not know how right they are. The palms wave; the garments flutter. The donkey is not afraid. His small round hooves crunch on palms and thud on the brightly colored clothing that should spook him, but he is not spooked. Why would he be? He knows Who is on his back.

In less than one week, that same crowd will have a different chant: Crucify Him. Crucify Him. And they will.

And because of this, we are free. We ride horses through the cosmos and laugh with friends. Our hearts are unfettered because of what He has done, because of His love. We find joy in the beauty around us and in the creatures and the people in our lives.

But we are free to have this joy because He loves us and gave Himself for us.

God is truly good.

All images by Erin Vogler Photography