The stone that was chiseled to form me,

Gleams in the sun, rigid and stiff,

My mother called out while at sea,

To my father, to call me Abiff.

My childhood was counted in Tyre,

Her harbors, both blessed and deep,

Sailors that went into storms dark and dire,

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Brought great news to my keep.

That square and level were needed,

At Jerusalem’s bright golden gate.

And Solomon’s prayer that was heeded,

When I measured the pieces of eight.

A word which I carried with me,

Apprentices – all of them eager and strong,

But eyes that are blindfolded can’t see,

And necks that are hoodwinked are wrong.

All three of them, in secret combination,

United in ignorance, prejudice and greed,

Their ignorance, passed down to their seed,

That poured on the altar a venomous oblation.

The sun that was a witness to my death,

Done with hammer, square and axe,

My blood fed the roots and stem of acacia,

My hands, crowned the temple of Asia,

My words counted the coins of the tax,

My lungs brought incense to my breath.

In Tyre’s bright towers of marble,

My mother the truth has shun,

Her seed remains perpetually fertile,

Because I remain the Widow’s Son.