Oh, that I could march an Ark seven times around these sins
and see them fall.
Oh, that I could blow the ram’s horn and devote them all
to destruction. Ah, faith.
Yea, for I would see myself the marching soldier of the LORD,
a valiant Israelite:
Tetragrammaton emblazoned upon my heaving chest, I’d set my jaw,
march with steady gait,
Be turned loose to stare down steely-eyed upon the Canaanite of
of my transgression —
And yet this roar I hear comes not from me, but from without,
terrible and unplanned.
What epileptic wraith possesses now the floor and walls,
seizing my stone sanctum?
Can my Jericho stand fast when the rocks are split in two,
and the ribbon crimson-red flows down his side?
For seven days he marched, a lonesome Israelite,
from palm-strewn cobblestone to Golgotha,
And now he’s shouting, and — oh, my God — how
these walls do shake.