Thy Little Ones

We rose from our hard beds, refused to weep
(Although we used the word — our skills for hire),
And climbed the ivied walls, however steep;
We could have used a chariot of fire,
A spear, a sword, a bow of burning gold,
But we had none of these productive tools.
We nursed instead a fear of growing old,
Admiring folly and persistent fools.
Someone spoke of the treasures that they hid
Inside the pages of the family Bible,
And I shared my thoughts, as the others did,
A feeling that was primitive and tribal,
Looking around for something soft to lie on.
Meanwhile we wept, when we remembered Zion.