They don’t have our God.

And so they quake as with the earth

and shudder like the trees

while frosted winds assail.

They trip and tremble on their way;

unknowing and unknown,

they cast for solid ground

but never find a hold.

–

Their rock is not our rock.

And so the water raving waves

sweep away their souls

and bear them out to sea:

a house not built to last.

They wander, wide, the flying dove

that Noah sent in hope

looking: for a branch