© CINDY PRINS/FLICKR OPEN/GETTY IMAGES
Across the old empire, angry idols glittered
far from Canaan’s calm,
gilded gaunt grey dunes of Egypt,
where the snub sphinx crouches cryptic;
and Rome, crushed by ambition’s stone,
raided history, but could not burn
eternity’s home, nor forget
Persia’s grudging lions
let free the lamb of innocence,
Iteru’s prison prophet
fed the nations for seven stricken seasons,
or the faith of her own centurion
in the word of a vassal preacher, dropped
a fatal blow on the titan empires
of Pharaoh and of Caesar;
no pantheon palaced these free spirits,
no pyramid praised love or raised an icon
to truth
barely tapped in the city and the desert:
Spirit’s prophets know fame hasn’t long,
for Soul sends its windsong
into the stifling heat
of history’s war-worn street,
and Christ’s immemorial star
cradles the midnight
of the poor.
