This poem comes from Autumn Leaves:

She sits on a battle-scarred hill,

Standing quietly like a lone sentinel,

Waiting through clear, starlit nights

For history to turn yet another page.

Resting against an ancient olive tree,

From Gethsemane, I gaze across the valley.

She looks like a dull jewel

In desperate need of a good polishing.

War, tears, bloodshed and misery

Have been seen often by her.

She wears them like every day apparel.

Peace is not found within her walls.

Yet it’s written that a child was born

In a village known as Bethlehem

That’s just south of where I rest,

Just as the prophecy foretold.

Born in the bloodline of David,

Root and stem of Jesse,

Born to die, yet live again

And live forevermore. Amen!

His house was over there

Across the little valley.

All that’s left of it now

Is the Wailing Wall.

The mind boggles at the battles fought,

At the endless bloodshed,

The lives and dramas played out

And history that touches lives untold.

Here on this dry,

Barren landscape…

Where water and not gold

Molds the lives of the people.

The bride to be

Patiently awaits her groom

To dazzle the whole world

On her wedding day.