There’s a legend that the Nazi occupiers of Denmark forced Jews to wear yellow armbands. The next day, King Christian X appeared, wearing a yellow armband in solidarity with Danish Jews. It’s a popular legend, but alas, not true.

But the true story is even more remarkable. When Germany ordered the arrest and deportation of Danish Jews in 1943 Danish people from all walks of life worked together to smuggle thousands of Jews to neutral Sweden on small boats and fishing craft—anything that would float. During this time, the Danish king rode his horse daily through the streets of Copenhagen without bodyguards, to the amazement of the Germans. When Christian X died in 1947, the cloth armband worn by members of the Danish resistance was placed on the king’s coffin.

He was a king with no military might and very little political power. But he inspired his people to quietly extraordinary deeds. No other country occupied by the Nazis saved so many of its Jewish citizens as Denmark did.

On the feast that now bears the highly triumphal title of Our Lord Jesus Christ, King of the Universe, there’s a temptation to settle for equally triumphal hymns and texts. But the kingdom of Jesus is not of this world—not a kingdom of military might, not one of great political power, not one of pomp and circumstance and court costume, but one of simplicity and service to the poor.

It’s worth repeating some of the music of Holy Thursday, especially what was sung for the washing of feet. Another song that quietly confronts unnecessary grandiosity is the beloved “Pescador de Hombres/Lord, You Have Come,” by Cesáreo Gabaráin. Our music needs to speak of a king who died like a criminal but who inspires each of us to quietly extraordinary deeds.