Tuesday, March 22, 2016

A whip splits the air in the temple

of ourselves,
casting out old ways of doing things
and purging improprieties
that stood, like booths, between
ourselves and God.

The sound hurts our ears
as we hear what
cannot wait
to be confessed.

Coins clatter to the floor.
Sacrificial substitutes wail and moan.
Dealers holler, “Halt!”

But, in all the chaos and commotion,
not one
hair on our heads is cropped by the whip.

Praise God for driving us
into a house of prayer.

Mary Harwell Sayler, © 2016