The heartstrings of the L-rd
Gut me like a fish...
The priests knife will surely see my worth.
Am I worthy?
Are the guts of bloodless curdle,
Or are they of salt and wine?
His heartstrings tug...
They pull me closer
To the embrace of
His heartstrings plucked the sounds
That ring the hymn familiar;
All those things, familiar, He will gut.
All things unworthy, gone.
The false comfort of my bed and room
And the words of the familiar prophets.
"Nae." They said to me, "Go back to the land desolate.
For we have taken your crown - you are not golden."
And ash heaped on ash;
Sand upon sand;
Dust upon the face of the wise.
"Tears are worth nothing,
For they cost nothing."
"Atonement comes from the words of this nation."
"Leave or be left."
Crying, but no tears left...
And then He comes down;