From stuff of dreams he wrought
a wooden temple filled with rooms,
each one a simple shrine to her, his wife
and with his eyes he wrote
the scriptures she loved to read.
His lips paid homage,
hosannas to her, his home,
and with his laying-on of hands
she would find a faith in him.
When at last she marked his simple cross,
some looked and thought he’d died a pauper
not knowing that she’d buried him a prince.