A thin wall separates me from the Holy of Holies.
Through it I can hear the angels
singing "Holy, Holy, Holy."
My feet are shaken as
the elders throw down their crowns.
Wafts of incense sometimes find me;
all this is beyond me.
Dead pale leaves lie
under the Sun of Jerusalem.
The way is quiet
and bits of the Cross
are relics
packed in cotton.
The dishes are cleared
away and the room is empty.
How have we served you?
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