For we are captive
The world’s tools we have borrowed
Alas, to the use of our own
So hang your harps on the willows…and mourn
Do not untie my binds that hold captive my handsFor I will not play for you
Nor will I open my lips to utter a joyful sound
And I shall be one as the chased roe
Are there not seasons?
To sing, to mourn
You have become like theatre, a dramaAll in the name of the Holy One
The bride corrupted, her ears tickled
Lost in her identity become a shame to you?
Then untie my bindsI will take back up my harp from upon the willows
I will lament and sing of repentance
Pleading for truth to dawn on worldly deceptions
Copyright 2014 Wandering Satellite Publishing