Myrrh

A Psalm of Myrrh

Golden‑brown, the ancient resin glows,
from ancient dunes of Arava it grows;
Its forest‑hushed fragrance rises high
over the chapel’s incense‑kissed sky.

In the choir of the desert’s dance,
the oil is poured to light the trance;
Its bittersweet breath, a soft refrain—
a thread of sorrow, hope, and pain.

The King‑maker’s hand, a humbled saint,
gifted myrrh to the lamb‑shaped saint;
A bow for flesh, a balm for tears,
a testament to blessed frontier years.

So in the pews of learning’s hall,
when incense curls and silence calls,
we toast this amber‑blessed perfume,
Myrrh – the cure for kingdom’s gloom.