Many have leaned on your inclination,
have been caught by your firm, forward falling
into a sure, shifting destination:
Jerusalem forever withdrawing.
Many anchor their calm on your movement,
many still sail on the wind you resist,
and your cape, which billows with fast intent,
has been ballast for those who wildly list.
More than art and less than idol, you thrust
between sunsets that magnify your steps
the long, unwavering, bronze wedge of trust
that is your body, spirit cast and blessed
with a metallic, limping fortitude
founded by an equally pilgrim God.