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,
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.