A Woman's Worship
If my body is a temple,
Then my temple is a forest.
A place of worship built by God himself
With arches of thick tree canopies.
And steps to the throne, roots and brush and earth and dirt.
The choirs are the birds, the wind and patterings of prey.
Why isn’t the forest as good a temple as any?
Is my temple less to you
Because the machines have torn down my trees,
Or the blood in my soil upon which life is built
Disgusts you?
But these rampant canyons of trees and sweet smelling wildflowers
Are the offerings I can bring to the one who loves my soul.
And as He brings the sunset
I stretch my limbs to trickle light through the halls of this sanctuary.
It is not as formal
As you would have it.
But it pleases Him the same.
And though I have been torn down time and time,
He constantly grows new life, again and again.
This broken body, He raises up over and over.
Evergreen and eternal.
What could make a better temple than a forest?
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