Post-Israel
My soul is a flake of silver cleaved from the Smith’s block;
I am roused from the dust by the wind of His footsteps as He walks by,
tumbling after Him, begging for His fire,
to be melted down and made into something He can use,
a ring for His finger, a cup to hold His water.
Anything, anything, to be close to You, my Beloved,
to be a crown for Your head, or a buckle for Your shoe.
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