They measured light in threads of blue and purple,

wove red like sunrise into linen’s hush.

Hands learned the language of gold and stitch,

and every seam became a prayer.

Cherubim leaned close on embroidered wings,

their faces caught in patient, holy craft.

Rings of gold held heaven to a pole of acacia,

poles wrapped in glory, standing like vows.

Silver cradled the weight of upright hope,

bronze steadied the entrance where the world bowed.

Five poles rose to guard the threshold’s breath,

a curtain kept the hush between the rooms.

So, the tent became a hymn of skill and offering,

each color, ring, and base a faithful word.

Those who labored, skilled, exact, and slow,

built a place where God might dwell and hear.