the golden bowl was
broken pouring
plagues of hail and
slag and ash
into the skies above our
Babylon.
“It is done,” the
loud voice called
in thund'ring tone as
trumpets
sounded fanfare for the
iron-clad
Jerusalem descending
from the sky:
streets of gold as
though it were
transparent glass with
cobblestone
and trolley-track
showing through.
I heard the voice from
heaven say,
“Behold the
tabernacle of God is with
men, and He will dwell
with them—
and everything is
meaningless.”
