SPOLIA AEGYPTORUM

I've gotten a little behind with the poetry thing, so here's another.

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Spolia Aegyptorum

Leaving this place,
The land of sin,
We find us loaded down
With all the golden lucre of the land-
Hold! Is it not best to travel light?
These Goods do not combine;
What has Athens to do with Jerusalem?
How to unite contradictory minds?
Still, we heft our weighty packs,
Turning toward the forlorn wilderness.

Later on, encamped beside the Mount,
Uneasiness speeds its way among the tents.
Moses has gone up, seeking God;
Perhaps God slew him-
Such perilous Gods we do not need.
Fretfully we wait, repining for
The leeks and onions of the fertile land;
Who now shall guide us,
Take us out of the wilderness of sands?
New gods are made out of our treasure,
Convenient, beautiful, by us controlled;
No more forced marches!
And the revelry began,
Dancing around the altar of our god
Brought out of the Land of Egypt.

What went awry I still don't know,
Head reeling from the weight of wine,
Stomach sour, with a metallic tang,
For Moses, coming down,
Seeing the orgiastic dance,
In temper, threw the plates he bore,
Wasting all his labor there;
On us, his anger broke like storm.
To pull down the Idol he commanded;
Madmen brook no contradiction.
Worse awaits; grinding it fine,
Polluting the one source of water,
He made us drink; now on our tongues,
The bitter, bitter taste of wrongful knowledge
Reminds us of apostasy's reward.

That was then; now, the Law is given.
Ready we are for our new home,
But first, our treasure is required,
The same which once was misapplied,
Made into a tabernacle,
A fitting home for God;
He will dwell among His People
And lead to that which is beyond.

After much wandering we have arrived,
Driving the giants from the Land,
Brought to this fit end,
Having learned right and wrong uses
Of gold brought from the land of Egypt.
A trouble it is still to me;
Though gold, brought to God's altar,
Is rightfully used, was it rightly acquired?
Many the bones lie with gold blended
Bleaching in a roadside bed of sand,
Both temptation, and a warning
to all who will not give their treasure.
Perhaps it would be better,
When fleeing the land to leave the gold;
Many a soul to hell has fallen
for the costly Babylonian robe.

--Don Comfort

Send poems to ddcomfort@gmail.com