The Gospel of the Wall of Jericho
Your wall, O wicked Jericho, your ancient, mighty wall,
Your shame, where you have made your infants’ blood renowned,
Your boast, your monument, your Babel, tall
And endless on its side, bent ’round
Into a ring, a thrust,
Your wall, your peace, your life you thought would ever thrive,
Now hollowed with four centuries of pride
Into a labyrinthine hive
Of honeyed lust inside,
With brothels all
But for one slender segment, with its rooms
And beds and washing bowls and creams
And ointments and perfumes,
Where Rahab and her kindred hide,
All hanging by a thread
The spies supplied
Would save, if they obeyed.
They ’wait the blade
But there, instead
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