In the Synagogue

In the hush of the synagogue,
A man spoke in a polished monologue.
Each prayer was recited like a catalog
While hearts drifted through misty fog.

His form followed the rule-bound decalogue
And missed the call for a living dialogue.
He guarded tradition, a stern watchdog,
Yet truth still moved like a leaping frog.

One stood out among those in the synagogue
Not teaching in cold or distant monologue.
He opened hearts to better dialogue
Where grace wrote a better epilogue.

No need to perform for a strict pedagogue
Nor twist holy truth like a sly demagogue.
He cut through confusion, no trace of fog,
Expressing truth even to the last underdog.

Some clung to their ways like a stubborn hog,
Their vision clouded, their minds in a smog.
Other minds were changed, no longer a clog,
Their souls running free in a great joyful jog.

So faith is not formed in a lifeless catalog,
Nor trapped in the echo of mere monologue.
It is found in the spirit of some real dialogue
That meets with the soul… in the synagogue.