From “Hosanna” Praise to the Cross — Our Salvation Unfolded

It was the kind of day that felt bigger than itself. The sun warmed the dusty streets of Jerusalem, and the city, already buzzing with pilgrims for Passover, suddenly began to hum with an even more electrifying energy. A stirring swept through the crowd like a whisper growing into a chant. People pressed in from every side of the road, standing on tiptoe, climbing trees, laying down cloaks—doing whatever they could to catch a glimpse. Something was happening. Someone was coming.

But not just anyone.

He was the one they had heard stories about—the carpenter from Nazareth who healed the blind, walked on water, and even called a dead man out of a tomb. He didn’t ride in on a horse like a general, or with soldiers and banners like a king. He came on a donkey, a symbol of peace. And that said everything about who He was and what He had come to do.

As He passed by, the people shouted, “Hosanna! Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord!” (Matthew 21:9). The word Hosanna meant “save us, we pray.” It was praise and plea, joy and desperation, all wrapped into one. They waved palm branches like they were welcoming royalty. And in a way, they were.

But what no one realized—not the crowd, not the disciples, not even those who shouted the loudest—was that this parade of hope was leading not to a throne, but to a cross.

Imagine the sound: sandals scraping against stone, palm branches brushing the air, voices rising in waves of jubilation. The streets of Jerusalem, already swelling with pilgrims for the Passover feast, now pulsed with something deeper—expectation. A kind of hope that was desperate and daring. Children danced. Elders wept. People climbed walls and leaned from windows. And at the center of it all, a man rode not on a warhorse, but on a donkey.

That choice alone was a message. Jesus was fulfilling what had been written centuries earlier by the prophet Zechariah:  

It was an entrance that spoke volumes. He was a King, yes—but not like any king the world had known. And yet, as He came through the city gates, the people shouted as if He were about to mount a political revolution.  

They welcomed Him as a hero, even as they misunderstood Him. The palm branches, the cloaks spread on the road, the swelling crowds—this was how Israel greeted a conquering king. But they expected swords, not sacrifice. They hoped for a throne, not a cross.

And not everyone was rejoicing. Watching from the margins, the chief priests and scribes did not share in the celebration. Their stony expressions spoke louder than the crowd’s cheers. They saw their influence slipping away. They saw a man threatening their carefully constructed world.

When Jesus entered the temple, He did something radical. He overturned the tables of the money changers and drove out those who had turned a house of prayer into a marketplace.  

The people were amazed. The leaders were outraged.  

The tension wasn’t only spiritual—it was political. Word had spread about a man named Lazarus, once dead, now alive.  

“If we let him go on like this,” the Pharisees said, “everyone will believe in him, and the Romans will come and take away both our temple and our nation.” (John 11:48).  

That fear ran deep. They were not only afraid of Jesus—they were afraid of Rome. And that fear turned quickly into a plot to kill.

But through it all, Jesus was not swayed. He wasn’t blindsided by the praise or threatened by the plotting. He knew where this road would lead.  

Even with betrayal brewing and death drawing near, Jesus remained steady. He continued to love, to teach, to serve. He chose compassion over comfort, mission over safety, and love over self-preservation—even as the shadows grew darker.

Now, shift the scene. The sun has set. The city that cheered days earlier now sleeps under a quiet and weighty sky. Jesus walks with His disciples to a familiar place—a garden called Gethsemane, tucked at the foot of the Mount of Olives. It’s a place He’s visited often to pray, to be alone with the Father. But tonight feels different. There’s an unease in the air, like the wind itself holds its breath.

Jesus is deeply troubled. He tells His disciples, “My soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death. Stay here and keep watch with me” (Matthew 26:38). Then He goes a little farther and prays, “My Father, if it is possible, may this cup be taken from me. Yet not as I will, but as you will” (Matthew 26:39). This is no empty ritual. This is a cry from the heart of someone fully divine, yet fully human—facing agony.

But while Jesus prays in surrender, His closest friends cannot stay awake. Not once, not twice, but three times, He returns to find them sleeping. And then—it begins.

Torches flicker. Metal armor clinks. Footsteps close in.

Leading the group is someone familiar: Judas, one of the twelve. One of His own.

Earlier, Matthew 26:14–16 told us what Judas had done. He went to the chief priests and asked, “What are you willing to give me if I deliver Him over to you?” And they paid him thirty pieces of silver—a sum that the book of Exodus identifies as the price of a slave (Exodus 21:32).

The betrayal wasn’t done with a sword. It was done with a kiss.

Jesus does not resist. He doesn’t run. When Peter draws a sword and cuts off the ear of the high priest’s servant, Jesus rebukes him and says,

He could have stopped it all. But He chose surrender. Because love required it.

The disciples flee. Jesus is bound and taken to face trial after trial. By the time dawn breaks, Matthew 27:1–2 shows the verdict:

Pilate, the Roman governor, questions Jesus.

Pilate sees no crime in Him, but the crowd is relentless. Stirred by the religious leaders, they demand the release of Barabbas—a known rebel and criminal—instead of Jesus.

This was the same city, perhaps even the same people, who had shouted “Hosanna!” just days before.

How quickly we change. When hope doesn’t come in the package we expect, we often reject it. When Jesus didn’t meet their political expectations, when He refused to be the warrior-king they hoped for, their cheers turned into chants for His death.

Pilate, fearful of a riot, washes his hands and declares himself innocent. But guilt cannot be washed away with water.

And so Jesus, the innocent Lamb, is handed over. He is flogged, mocked, given a crown of thorns. Soldiers kneel before Him in cruel mockery, saying,

But Jesus doesn’t speak in anger. He doesn’t strike back. He is the King—but not of this world.

The hill called Golgotha looms outside the city walls—a place of execution, where criminals are left to die in shame. On this day, three crosses are raised. On the center one hangs Jesus of Nazareth. To His left and right, two criminals.

The crowd gathers once again. But this time, no palm branches are waving. No one is shouting “Hosanna.” Instead, there is the sound of hammers, the jeers of bystanders, the heavy breathing of soldiers. Some watch in silence, others mock. Soldiers gamble for His clothing at the foot of the cross, fulfilling what had been written:  

Above His head, a wooden sign is nailed to the cross. It reads, “This is Jesus, the King of the Jews.” (Matthew 27:37) What was meant as mockery was, in fact, the truth.

And then, as blood drips and lungs struggle for breath, Jesus speaks, on the cross. Not in anger. Not in self-pity.  

Who says that? Who, beaten and nailed to wood, looks down on His executioners and offers forgiveness?

Even now, on the cross, Jesus loves. Even now, He reaches.

To His side, one of the criminals begins to hurl insults:  

But the other man—broken, bleeding, humble—rebukes him:  

Then he turns to Jesus and whispers a prayer that must have taken all the breath he had left:  

And Jesus, full of mercy even in agony, responds:  

Even at His lowest, Jesus is saving. Even in suffering, He is bringing someone home.

Hours pass. The sky grows dark. Creation seems to hold its breath. Jesus, aware that everything is now complete, fulfills the final prophecy.  

They lift a sponge soaked in wine vinegar to His lips.

And then, with one final breath, He declares,  

Not, “I am finished,” but *it*—the mission, the sacrifice, the price for sin. It is done. The veil in the temple is torn. The way back to God has been opened.

He bows His head and gives up His spirit.

But the story doesn’t end there.

One man stands near the cross, a Roman centurion. He’s seen countlessly many crucifixions under his command before. He knows what death looks like. But this one is different. Something about Jesus—the way He suffered, the way He forgave, the way He died—pierces the soldier’s heart.

A hardened soldier. A pagan by birth. A man trained to follow orders, not feel emotion. But in that moment, he confesses what many in the crowd had missed.

Because sometimes it’s in the shadow of the cross that we finally see the light.

So what do we make of this journey—from palm branches to wooden beams, from the joyful cries of “Hosanna!” to the devastating shout of “Crucify Him!”? How do we make sense of such a dramatic shift in just a few days?

The truth is, this story isn’t just about a moment in history. It’s about the human heart. The crowd that welcomed Jesus with songs of praise turned away when He didn’t fulfill their expectations. They wanted a king who would crush Rome, not a Savior who would be crushed for their sins. They wanted victory on their terms, not redemption through suffering.

And yet—Jesus knew. He knew the celebration would be short-lived. He knew betrayal waited at the table, and thorns waited on His head. But He never turned back. He rode into Jerusalem with eyes wide open, choosing the path of pain for the sake of love.

He loved those who shouted His name and those who cursed it. He washed the feet of His betrayer. He forgave those who nailed Him to a cross. His love wasn’t based on who we are—but on who He is.

This is what makes the cross the greatest act of love in all of history. Jesus didn’t die because He was forced to. He chose the cross. He chose to take our place. He chose to bear our shame, so we could be set free.

This is where the Gospel begins—not in applause, but in agony. Not in comfort, but in sacrifice. Yet in that suffering, we see the unwavering, unstoppable heart of God.

From “Hosanna” to “It is finished,” Jesus reveals a love that meets us in our worst and offers us His best—a new beginning and an eternal life through His grace.

Let’s pray together.

Lord Jesus,

We thank You for the journey You took—for riding into Jerusalem not for a crown of gold, but for a crown of thorns. For hearing the cries of “Hosanna” and still walking toward the cross. You knew the pain ahead, the betrayal, the injustice, and yet You went forward out of love for us.

We confess that we, too, have turned away. We’ve sought You for what we want and walked away when we didn’t understand Your ways. But still, You love. Still, You call.

Today, we hear the echo of Your voice—”Father, forgive them.” And we are humbled. Let those words ring in our hearts. Let them bring us back.

Help us to see the cross not as the end, but as the beginning. A place where mercy flows, where love overcomes hate, and where broken hearts are made whole.

May we respond not just with shouts on a Sunday, but with lives that follow You every day.

Let “Hosanna” live in us—not only as a cry for help, but as a song of hope. You have come. You have saved. And You are still calling.

Amen.