You told them to raise the boards upright, acacia ribs against the wilderness wind, a house that could breathe, yet never bow, a dwelling stitched with Your nearness.

Each frame stood shoulder to shoulder, joined by rings of gold, held by sockets of silver, earth below, heaven above, meeting in every measured span.

Curtains whispered between the pillars, woven boundaries of holy and most holy, a veil not of distance, but of ordered mercy.

Here, in the quiet geometry of obedience, You taught a wandering people how glory rests among the willing, not in stone, but in standing wood, aligned, anointed, and lifted toward You.