I walk on dust and ashes
Of men honored long before
I stand on ruptured temple grounds
That were and are no more
I follow shafts of plumbing
Trading trails and haunts of old
Mull on tales of babes, and elders--
Strains on progress--sewered out
Beneath each step on silt-veiled mound
Beneath the loam I tread
Call once-conceited carvers
With a deep and utter dread
“Our kingdoms are no longer
Yours is but a blink
Only that which Christ is shaping
Will never topple nor sink”
