By Lindsey Esselmen
Before the dawn, he goes to light the lamps when all is quiet,
and insects hum in gentle tones as golden breaks the day.
His table he prepares, the light he places close beside it
as he contemplates the coming tasks and bows his head to pray.
No priest is he, nor warrior nor prophet; just a man,
who carves acacia boughs and tempers silver for his Lord,
creating objects steadily according to His plans,
armed only with the knowledge of His will as his reward.
How carefully he plies his craft, the cutting and the setting
of fiery carnelians and violet amethyst;
and scarlet yarn in fine motif on heavy linen threading,
agleam with possibilities that once did not exist.
A knot in nature’s logic now takes shape within his hands,
a dwelling place for Him who is not bound by time nor space,
but nonetheless has come in means that we may understand,
a hazy silhouette where we will one day see His face.
The newborn day exhales a sigh as Bezalel draws breath
and holds cold fingers to the flame that burns in his direction,
the flame of goodness, beauty, but yet more than all that: Death,
the sweeping paradox that brings his workings to perfection.
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