Have not the poets said
"The woods are God's temple"?
But throughout time, man hath said,
"The waters and woods are gods!"
So they whisper in the wilderness,
they shout from the mountain's brow,
raise arms in homage to the forest crown,
and kneel to honour the 'sacred' ground
Yet their precious Nature holds a scourge
whipping fire-cords upon the earth;
pillars of pine blaze a burnished bronze,
the wood-god's spirit spirals away in smoke
Men's lodge-pole idols, majestic towers,
have been blackened, bowed low—
they are gods-become-incense-and-ashes,
might and beauty all burnt away
Men are all wrong—Beauty and Nature
are not gods; rather, they are God's,
signposts leading men to their Maker
and to their place within His creation
The poets are only half right to say
that the woods are worship spaces—
For God Himself says that men
are His temples, His dwelling places
Though they begin charred and dark,
from ashes spring shoots of green,
life revived; renewed like a forest
after a consuming, cleansing fire
Spirit inhaled into ash-laced lungs,
inspired sanctuaries made holy by
the breath whispered into them from
mouth that fashioned woods from words
It is the theologians who know the truth,
that men are God's home, holding within them
His life-breath—the rubble-scarred redeemed,
reclaimed to life, growing into palace-pillars.
