O Zealot of my soul entire, You wish to make my heart a shrine! The robbers, merchants in their fire, Their coins, their birds, their swine.
The crowds stand gaping all around, The dealers hungry for their gain. With pain You see what there is found— All falsehood here and all that's vain.
All that is foreign to my core, Yet tries to settle in my mind, To hollow out my spirit's store. You watch and clench Your fists confined.
With firm and steady step ahead You go with one resolve complete— To drive out all this cursed spread Without remorse or false retreat.
Your faithful hands so strong and true Weave ropes of fiber, firm and fast, And with Your zealous love so true You free me from my bondage vast.
I hear You cry: "My house! My shrine!" The tables fall, the merchants flee. And in Your eyes I see the sign, What power beats so mightily!
What authority You hold, That righteous thunder shakes the air! My soul—Your kingdom to behold! You will not give me to despair.
It matters not to You, dear Christ, If all around misread Your way. You love with fervor, sacrificed! And Your rope-scourge holds its sway.
