The ancient King of Babylon
believed in An and Sin,
and by the sands
of arid lands
built palaces within.
He had a headdress made of gold,
and rings, five to a hand,
and with a rule
most harsh and cruel
he reigned over the land.
He was the lord and King of Kings,
he was the night and day,
his line was old,
his head was gold,
his feet were made of clay.
Oh Babylon! So very great,
and yet so filled with bitter hate;
the nations’ blood you wallowed in
and crushed the courts of Solomon
but died a lurid fate.
Oh Babylon! What wrathful God
commanded: “Sing a senseless song?”
And bid you eat the grass of fields,
and greenery that Nature yields,
and let your nails grow long?
A golden cup filled up with hate,
the rims reads “Babylon the Great,”
Great Babylon will drink her fill
who caused a nations’ blood to spill
and burned the Essene gate.
What curse, what exile, what call
causes the temple courts to fall,
and leaves a Southern land bereft
with only scattered remnants left,
and none to keep their home at all?
Oh Solomon! Your wealth of old,
and all your inner rooms of gold!
Your purple cloth from foreign ports,
wise were your words, great were your courts,
and all the proverbs that you told.
O rock hewn not from human hands
amidst the sands of arid lands,
where are your temple courts of stone?
Where is God’s holy golden throne?
One Wailing Wall. Naught else still stands.