panels and tears

panels and tears

We polish cedar, grain by grain,

while the temple outside collapses in rain.

The Valley of Baca drips with tears,

pilgrims stumble, but we sip our years.

Panelled walls, imported pride,

faith reduced to carpentry inside.

The prophet’s voice—ignored, dismissed—

we measure devotion by how well we’ve dressed.

And still, in painted rooms we sigh,

for tall young captains marching by.

Chaldean shoulders, gleaming spears,

more alluring than the pilgrims’ tears.

So let the valley flood with cries,

we’ll drown them out with cedar lies.

Better a panel than a spring,

better a captain than the King.

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