Half-handed Cloud Flea Market Temple
Made a house of prostitution
Supposed to be a house of God
It felt more like the flea market
And not the home of Aaron’s rod
You can’t see budding twigs when it’s so dead in here
And they will fear when they see God Himself among them
Among them in the temple courtyard
Thrashing all the people out
With homemade whip the first occasion
And three years later the second time
He flipped the tables over on Passover