O Jerusalem,
Jerusalem..
City that stones
to Death
the prophets
sent by God
to thee.

Reduced
to rubble lies
The Temple
of thine old
belief.
But now
that we see
eye to eye..
do humor me.

What good
is faith
when one
may not
secure
a steady
guarantee?
About as good
as nails
that bind thy
savior
upon a cross.
As good as free.

As lost to us
as art of free fall
in reverse
against the pull
of Earthly
gravity.

But do not
frighten.
Faith shall
find its way
right back
to thee..
the moment
that thou
findest
thine own
way to me.

Alas, this latest
prophet in the making
sheds no tears
on thy behalf.
He wears
a thorny crown
worthy of kings
who chose to walk
upon this thorny path.
And just like preachers
of thine old belief..
and quite unlike
thy very last..
he laughs.