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