The wind is blowing and the muezzins are wailing at the edge of the Judean Hills. O, Jerusalem.
Your gold and pink-tipped dawn entices mornings for a thousand thousand years.
Who are we to press ourselves against the fabric of your eternal skirts, you who clothe yourself in the dawn and throw back the windows of the sky to cry to Heaven ...
Who are we to seek your shelter, your succor, your face?
Day is revealed like a veil removed to kiss the face of G*d
And who can sleep while your children are stirring, crying and calling for the one who binds all beneath her wings?
The voices of your supplicants rise in the morning air
Answered only by another day
Talit and Tefillin, bells and incense, rugs and beads
A cacophony of praise echo and bounce from stone to sky, carried on the breeze...
Each morning before we renew our ancient grudge
We sing of Your One-ness with divided hearts and double minds
Each offering imperfect by the blood it bears.
O Jerusalem, unique one
Your mornings rise upon us all, alike.
