But the Lord rebuilds Jerusalem,
Collects the scattered, castoff, brokenhearted
Seed of Israel and knows how many
Stars there are, and calls them all
By name, and hears the answer.
We can’t describe how music works
Or know the time of clouds, rain, mountain grass.
Cattle graze there, crows pick
Through what horses leave behind.
A rider, strong enough to pass through air
Needs more than skill to master fear.
When earth becomes Jerusalem, praise
Doors that keep the north wind out,
Your children warm inside, with bread, fruit
Of the plain unrolling thunder, tables
Where wool snow blankets ashes’ frost
Nip hail sown buds of cold. A glance.
They melt, soft breezes streaming water.
Only we have heard it, and retell it.
