This fire consumes everything.
This ground itself cries out.
Do not look on the face of this new God,
Climb this mountain top to bring back His riches.
Believe, and we will toss this mountain into the sea.
Our mana comes at a cost.
It will be a dead thing tomorrow.
We will see the smoke by day and the fire by night.
Let us trade Aaron’s turban and sash
for a clear plastic faceplate and self-contained breathing apparatus
Behold this ephod, made of tyvek.
Don, these new vestements,
You, our high priest.
to our confusion and ambition, our insight and our fear, our consumption and our conservation.
Dressed thus, only,
shall you enter into our latter day holy of holies.
For it was a nonchallance like Uzzah’s known at Three Mile Island.
And a despair like David’s felt after Cheronobyl.
This new God.
Will not speak sotftly to the prophet at the precipice.
Or send his declarations on tablets.
Perhaps even the troops dressed for battle will be shocked by his ruthlessness, though.
And maybe, something, deep within