Book of Praises: Bashan

Great is your irony, oh God my father,
in twisting the strings so I dance
where I swore I’d never step;

you are a mystery in breaking down
idols two at a time,
hands and feet broken off
before the altar;

you bid me carry censor and wood
up the mountain (I will prove
a good lamb);

you are turning me inside out:
I am not who I thought I was.

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