Two Sprigs of Myrtle

He was hurrying between
the twighlight's embers
To welcome the Shabbos Queen.
In his hands - two sprigs of myrtle
To guard, To remember
The Hand unseen.

And all those years we spent
Up to our necks,
Our souls were clothed
In nothing more than sand -

We could burn the world
With eyes of fire,
But it's enough,
It's enough -
That there are two
Such as you and I.

SOURCES:
Talmud Shabbt 33b

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This poem originally appeared in SEASONS OF THE MOON for Iyar 5757.
Written by Rabbi Yaakov Asher Sinclair.
General Editor: Rabbi Moshe Newman.
HTML Design: Michael B. Treblow

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