I long to know that land in spirit
where the highlands meet the desert.
Where there’s faith and coffee served
with ceremony still observed.
The white-robed land, where priests intone
in Levite ritual ‘round the ark.
A land in clouds of frankincense,
whose past is bitter, strong and dark.
I’ll enter where the rock is carved
in cruciform epiphany;
where Midian’s curtains hide the starved
whose hunger feeds conspiracy.
I’ll walk the wilds of Meroë
all ruined in the desert sands,
where beauty wails and ululates
as silver gleams on amber strands.
Her kings and peasants come to naught
when princes’ plots are overthrown.
Her blameless name was never bought;
her faith in Christ is scribed in stone.
Queen Sheba’s golden sepulcher
your modern guises can’t suffice
to quench the fire of God and spice.
Davidic land! Like calvary
your power purifies the heart
through struggle, prayer, and ancient art.