Everything was overlaid with gold. Walls, furnishings—so much beauty, so much effort. I can’t help but wonder where it all is now. Gold doesn’t fade or decay. I can’t help but wonder where it all is now. Gold doesn’t fade or decay. What became of it? Perhaps it was taken, piece by piece, over time.
And the wood—cedar.
I try to imagine the scent that must have filled that sacred space. Warm, rich, and unmistakable.
It takes me back to something small and personal.
My mother had a cedar chest. I loved opening it as a child, not just to see what was inside, but for the smell that greeted me every time. It felt like opening something treasured—something set apart.
I wonder if the temple felt like that.
A place filled with beauty. A place that invited you to pause. A place where even the air reminded you that you were somewhere sacred. A space that drew the heart upward. A place to be taught, to hear the voice of the Lord, to worship, pray, and commune.
And then I think—perhaps that was the point.
Not just gold.
Not just craftsmanship.
But peace.
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