The New Bereans

Aiden W. T.

My heart a grove of trees so tall
So tightly packed in concentric rings
I long them felled each one and all
Fly thine axe with silver wings
Pine of pride, Ponderosa of pity
Pity me O’ Pity me…
Sawtooth Oak your acorns spread
A canopy of earthbound salient dread
Agile and quick thou art when I
Forget His axe and plead thee die…

The handle hewn from Cross-Tree heart
Hard as ages and agile in hands
Whom never time touched yet I pierced through
You have an axe whilst I held a hammer
Hew them down I plead thee my banner

Fell them, fell them, into the ponds
Of water released after piercing thee in thy bonds
Trunks and branches so knotty and old
Gnarled and twisted, linked and enthroned
Elbows embraced in moss bearded bone

The hatchet head sharpened from words in thy book
Hardened and smelted thy shape it took
Fashioned through love and weighted with grace
Bound to the haft with Yahweh’s embrace
The hand which wrote on Bab-el’s walls
Mightier than the mightiest kings halls
Grip thine handle with all thy strength
I invite the accelerating arc of thy sovereign arms length

Hew them down, Hew them down
Till miasmic leaves blanket this earthen floor
From which I shall behold thy cities pearly doors…

This forest O Father is kindling to thee
Scattered among the dirt and the scree
Fallen like lost sons of ancient Anak
Through whom ran Caleb and Joshua’s attack
They seemed so mighty and loomed so strong
But thou makest giants lie where they belong

By thy redemptive grace I now implore
With head rested on Beth-El’s rocky pillow core
All around fallen timber this timber is yours
Thy path now lies straight through what once was detour
The corner stone upon thee now, I rest my head and look ‘round
Pillars erect thee upon this foundation (was once a seed from humble a nation.)

Build me with thy house of promise
Work and fashion for good I plead
Though doubt looms after the fashion of Thomas
Knit together I will be, fashioned for loves urgent need.
Now part of a tabernacle so large,
A Jerusalem of stone thy own reward.
This wooden heart thou regenerate,
As the Fathers required wrath,
Upon Salem’s hills, the Son did abate!

-Jeremiah Dusenberry