The Phylactery on Reverend Goss's Sunday Wrist (Phylactery)

Lyrics

[Intro]

[Verse 1]
In the vestry behind the altar,
Reverend Goss stands at 7:30 AM,
early autumn chill at fifteen degrees Celsius.
He opens the blue velvet pouch,
frayed at the edges from years unspoken.
The tefillin shel yad rests inside,
black leather box, parchment scrolls within,
verses from Exodus 13:9,
written by a nameless scribe in gallnut ink.

[Chorus]
Phylactery on the Sunday wrist,
strap wound seven times around the arm,
forming the letter shin,
a sign upon the hand,
a memorial between the eyes.
Rabbi Akiva ben Joseph knew this,
in the year 135 CE,
bound to the Almighty.
I name it tefillin,
leather cool against skin,
musty scent of parchment rising.

[Verse 2]
He adjusts the tefillin shel rosh to his forehead,
straps knotted at the back,
symbol in the mind's center.
Once a year, this ritual,
Anglo-Catholic-Hebraicist, his words,
gift from theological studies,
origin lost, craftsman unknown.
The hide from a kosher calf,
dyed black, pure for the act.

[Bridge]
I watch from the doorway,
naming each part:
shel yad for the arm,
shel rosh for the head.
No credit to the maker,
just the purpose, sacred and plain.

[Verse 3]
Incense lingers, mixed with leather's breath,
rough texture pressing faint imprints.
Talmud, Tractate Menachot 34b,
rules etched in memory.
He prays, eyes closed,
bound in devotion.

[Chorus]
Phylactery on the Sunday wrist,
strap wound seven times around the arm,
forming the letter shin,
a sign upon the hand,
a memorial between the eyes.
Rabbi Akiva ben Joseph knew this,
in the year 135 CE,
bound to the Almighty.
I name it tefillin,
leather cool against skin,
musty scent of parchment rising.

[Outro]
The pouch closes,
ritual done till next year.