We greet Hanukkah first, before Shabbat arrives.

Each time a wick catches, we childishly pray
That its sputtering hope never dies.

Then a light to remember, another to guard, (’neath the beacon that helps light the way)
For the first night of miracles in ancient times,
In this season and maybe today.

Their murmuring beams seem like paltry replies
To the neighborhood’s green-red display,
But Shabbat owes its flame to the bright battle-cries
That protect its blue core, come what may.

1 comment:

Jonah Rank said...