Capstone and stumbling block,
the house falls in your absence
and the people cry, prayer-weary,
out of the abundance of their blood
for they have been their own sacrifice,
they have wailed at their own execution
and noon and sunrise have passed.
Their power lies in ruins.

You know their prolix hearts and watch
from distances that would astound them.
They are earth’s conversation
and your remembrance is remembered with them.
What have they heard of your central stony silence?
What have they seen of your pillar or your cloud?
Their chants have fallen on the fallen walls.

Like builders of towers on open borders
they have shouldered stones and carried them
to the edge of the enemy. Their newborn sons
crry along unguarded paths. Revenge has burned,
even among their women. You have taken their
sure stones and led them home at night.

Cornerstone to come, you know their noon
surprises, their striking plans. Give them
nothing to wear out time. When they have opened
their mouths for armies, when they have cut
their strengthened human hair and bound their
bleeding righteousness,
return them to your central place
that they may see your smooth, encompassed face.