Your body is a sanctuary

A renaissance-esque statuary

Crafted with detailed precision

The product of celestial vision

A private space for self-communion

Where soul and flesh have their reunion

Sacred by its very essence

Grace in its ethereal presence

But like the merchants in Bethphage

Even temples can be defiled

Though oft through no fault of their own

For men are ravenous and wild

Would that you could set up traps

And catch the villains in a snare

But though secure, you may still find

You no longer feel comfort there