loyd.net

You are my wailing wall.
Your wall still stands,
But only a shadow of the beauty that once was.
When I see it
(Or even think about it),
I wail.
Not always with tears,
But inside I wail, weep, mourn,
And pray that your glory will be restored.

The lamp that once burned bright both day and night
      Has now grown dim,
      Has now gone out.
The fire that burned within
      Has now died down;
Not even burning coals are left.
Perhaps a spark that could erupt into glorious flame?
      The hope remains.

Even if there were a fiery altar,
Where would the sacrifice be?
The living sacrifice that you once willingly gave,
      Holy and acceptable?
Who are you to say that it is not acceptable?
Offer what you have.

Where are the offerings of song:
The psalms that were sung with joy—
With a sincere heart?
Oh, may they be sung once again!
(How I long to join in that song.)
Yet the silence remains:
      The empty hollow silence within your walls.
Do you not yet see that walls are nothing?
It is the life within that matters.

Oh, my wailing wall,
As I hear your silence,
My silent cries continue.

Young men you were Portraits My Window