My heart is bent towards your gates.
I sit estranged from earth and join the theme;
let blossom Aaron's rod, my soul awaits
for heaven's manna, for the stream
from Meribah has broken red on gold,
for blood alone has made the altar hold
sway of the soul's one sanctum here,
and snow on Zalmon's ranges shall appear
while drips the oil anointed from the head:
come consecrate the wine and eat the bread.
While all the fire whips without,
my sudden soul is sanctuaried within -
bones to call these stones home -
and if the Hand permits,
my vagrancy shall cast the world on loan
a little longer, while the house is not the home.