Underneath the heralding of marketeers, the bleating and lowing of sacrificial animals, and the babble of banter in thirty native tongues, I could almost hear the sound—a haunting of the air—of music over the Gentile Court.
Is that a tambourine? Or coins settling on a scale? I hear a lament, a woman crying out. No, she squeals with laughter. I hear a bass murmur of another crowd through the walls, more unified, barely audible. I focus on it, but it escapes me. A camel grunts, loaded with goods. Where is the peace, the majesty, and the beauty I was promised in His presence?
The merchants and money-changers, some of them fresh from the temple, obscure the walls and pillars of God’s house with their heaped up crates and baskets—their shade tents and well-stocked tables. In a language everyone can understand, they pitch their wares. In mock service to the pious, they drown out every pious sound.
