a poem

Temple

Nicely clad with fine linens
Air laced with potent spices
We gossip here in the market
Beneath the sign that says
“Holy unto the Lord”

My cloak gets stained
With what consumed my thoughts today
But mud is normal in a pig pen

We bargain and shuffle for our own pleasure
And comfort and gain and supposed humility
We split our allegiance and sing nice songs
And call ourselves temples of the Holy Spirit

If Jesus walked in, he wouldn’t give me a hug
He’d squash the tables, rage the vendors
And clash the coins on the tiles
“Rage of jealous kind”

Lord, kill the market place in me
Make me a prayer for the nations