12 tribes

[Joshua Bailey]

Who are the holy?

Who will be made whole?

Woe to those who adorn themselves with sackcloth yet mourn not.

For the worthy shall inherit the scoffers crops on that day.

When all those standing falsely shall fall,

and all mouths mocking shall halt.

The bride's power flowing down as water tumbles to the ground from a mountain top.

Forming a delicate dress of mist at the bottom, to quench the unending thirst of the lost.

The rocks cry out, the trees leaves shout, the house of G-d finally being built.

One day, in only one day, all works will stop for a moment,

then all shall see, all shall know.

Branches of the nations burning and glowing,

only the softest ashes used as mortar.

Each grain of sand carefully chosen to join the fires embers, then lovingly thrown in.

Out comes glass for the windows, blocks for the walls.

The tallest human home cowers, yet the earth's lowest valley could never hope to show,

the brokenness of the fathers heart, our foundation stone.

His tears towered over all the land already once before,

now each morning the sun begins to call them upward home.

By night the moon pulls their tides as a servant might, for it has no glory of its own.