by Brett Rutherford
1
The rich, when they want anything
blessed or approved — a deed,
the joining of two houses,
or a transgression forgiven,
dress up in all their finery
and make a show of it.
The rich man himself
rides humbly behind
the unspotted bull.
His steward goes first,
waving for all to see
the sun-bright blade
and the gilt handle
of the sacrificial knife.
Must he, the magnificent one,
once at the altar,
take up the knife? Must he,
with his own hand,
do the efficient thrust
that brings the bull bellowing
to its swift demise? Must he
with his own hands withdraw
the steaming entrails
for the burnt offering?
Who gets the rest of the cow?
What do the priests do
on days of hecatomb
with all that beef and bone?
Why is the One above
so fond of burning entrails?
One not so rich
may make an offering
according to his station.
One lamb,
unspotted, submissive,
is easy to lead
to the altar. One thrust
of a knife, and it is simply done.
Another man,
possessing some crag
or cranny with olive trees,
if he can corral a goat —
he too may make an offering
if that is what it takes
to amend his ways
or ask some boon of Heaven.
Leading a goat to altar
is no small feat, to be sure.
The effort counts for something.
Pity the townsman
who comes to Temple
with a clucking load
of hens in a basket.
He’s waved away
but then returns
with turtledove in hand.
The priest consents to watch
as he wrings its neck,
and, poor limp thing,
it is added to the pile.
Yet even he is blessed.
Woe to the poor,
who have no life to give up,
whose mouths groan out
in hunger all days
except the Sabbath.
Yet such a man,
if he have need
of the blessing of Heaven
will wend his way
to the smoking altar,
and take from his sack
one handful of grain.
Put to one side,
in shallow bowl reserved
for the poorest of the poor,
it is nonetheless weighed,
and counted, and credited.
2
Toppled and gone,
the Temple is no more.
The priests, as a class,
no longer exist;
heirs plying other trades
still bear their names,
the sons of Aaron.
If you, a stranger,
and friendless, come
to this shining shore,
call first at the poor man’s house,
for there, from that last sack
of the grain of the fields,
a blessing a thousand times multiplied,
he will give you bread to eat.
3/12/2026
