On Holy Monday, shadows lengthen long,
The King who rode in triumph yesterday
Now strides into His Father’s house with song
Of righteous anger, driving merchants away.

Tables overturned, coins scatter wide,
Doves flutter free from cages built for gain;
“No den of thieves shall here My temple hide,”
He cries, while zeal consumes Him like a flame.

Yet deeper still, the temple of His heart
Prepares itself for sacrifice to come—
The whip of cords a foretaste of the part
He soon will play when soldiers nail Him to the wood.

The Lord who cleansed the courts with holy fire
Cleanses now the temple of each soul entire.
He turns over every greed that makes its home,
And makes of every heart a dwelling for His throne.

Let Monday’s zeal ignite in us anew
A pure devotion, costly and most true—
That as the week unfolds in grief and grace,
We may anoint His feet with all we have.