Poem

Mourning the Temple

 

Did we not feel, with these empty hands, once,

the warm stone, the cool stone?

Did we not see the walls take on the moods

of the sky, whether cloud, rain, whether sun,

whether joy?  Oh did we not run to its shelter

when the rains did come!

 

Of fired clay, industry and insight

it was made, and glory was in its gates.

Now the walls have come down, rubble bears

our fingerprints, still, rumour of blood

from our hands.

 

The Lord's doing is marvelous in our eyes.

 

Clay is clay.  Glory is unquenchable fire.

The sun that rose over the walls

will set over the revealed ground.

 

In our hands, still, the cool stone,

the warm stone.

 

Amen.  Hallowed be Your name.