The Temple I Am

The Temple I Am

I wore no crown of stone or steel,
No altar cold, no marble seal.
No pillars stretched to pierce the sky,
But breath and flame and holy cry.

He whispered, This shall be My place,
Not walls, but hearts, I will embrace.
Within the soul, not crafted spire,
I kindle love, I light the fire.

But shame drew near in serpent tone,
And clothed me not with light, but stone.
A whisper came: Make for yourself a mask—
A veil of leaves, a counterfeit task.

So I adorned what fear had sewn,
And stood behind a pride unknown.
I hid, I lied, I wore the dress
Of hollow faith and false impress.

Then came the fire—not wrath, but grace.
He called me from that secret place:
Remove the veil. Let fig leaves fall.
Let shame be burned. I want it all.

No longer robed in fear and pride,
I let the mask fall from my side.
A broken heart, a spirit bare,
Invited God to enter there.

The wind returned, but I stood still.
His Spirit, not my will, but Thine.
Not covered now, but truly dressed—
By light, and peace, and righteousness.

No carved-out dome, no hidden flame,
But temple filled in Jesus’ name.
No outward form, no worldly claim,
But inward fire that none can tame.

So let the angels walk this floor,
Let holy fire guard the door.
The Lord has said and so I stand—

The temple I am… not built by hand.