Psalm

We dropp our priestly robes

and bring out altar lights.

We hid the Lord's Word in books

and move rounded our faces to the world.

And the world beats us, beats, beats,

for our and no one's fault,

because we build cities, play beautifully upon the violin,

eat unleavened bread upon Pesach,

and we stand for an allowance--unemployed

in july's sweltering days.

And because we are lonely

have great actors, and want to breathe in

evenings filled with pine.

Because we have to sneeze

spit, hawk, and exclaim beg for alms,

and because we don't want to die.

We didn't leave Great Zion

and walk down from the highest mountains

to trade in dirty European cities.

After all, our lips brought

the Lord's Word to the world,

from the furthest and highest clouds

the reflection of God's face

whose power encourages us and terrifies others.

So the world beats us, beats, beats,

for our and no one's fault;

that we are black, and red

and tired

and generous

that we want to win away from the hunt

and survive, that we don't kill

that our priests don't have their have a title to temples--

that we don't have any harbor

and that we don't accept the blame

for other people's faults.

Copyright World verse Incorporated Sep/Oct 2003

Provided by means of ProQuest Information and Learning Company. All rights Reserved