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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.

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