Publish the Word
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Yeshua -- 10, Father's House

In the beginning. . .
was the word

 The Lord gave the word: great was the company of those that published it. Psalms 68:11

 

x  His Father's House

 

To the carpenter's road-worn family, the royal

     city rose illusory in early, shimmery sun,

through the north gate's ancient, ocher walls,

 

into the milling throng the porticoes cast

     shade upon, past stone vaults, slums, ivied

colonnades, kiosks, carts, ramshackle shops,

 

past vendors grilling meat along the terraced,

     light-washed esplanade, past parti-colored

bolts of cloth, fish tubs, carcasses splayed

 

and hung, past caged songbirds trilling, plucked

     fowls, makeshift pens of mewling ewes,

past gemstone merchants, terracotta statuettes,

 

holy relics, a squad of drilling Roman soldiers:

     from a hawk's skyward perspective gazing

down, was the seething entity the temple mount

 

and tabernacle crowned, shadow-struck, in part,

     by over-passing clouds like herds of sheep,

a glut or sensory glee for a boy-king in disguise?

 

Pay a copper mite to enter.  Haggle on a lamb

     to burn.  Chant a lament the psalmist tore

from his heart centuries ago, an exile song

 

even newborn's sing.  Applaud the choir, bow

     as a ram horn bellows over harps, flutes,

and sacrificial, smoke-swallowed squeals

 

the tiled courts overspill with. Amos, Isaiah,

     Solomon in his resplendency trod these

marble steps up to and through the gate named

 

Beautiful, as close to Zion's veiled sanctuary

     as costumed priests allowed.  Yeshua at 12,

was the prodigy son for three days, at home

 

in his Father's house.  The Galilean caravan

     left without him, every parent's latent fear.

 The boy they finally found was already gone.