The craftsman cuts down cedars. Or he picks a cypress or an oak and lets it grow strong in the forest. He plants a cedar and the rain makes it grow.
Then it becomes fuel. He takes part of it and warms himself by the fire. He lights a fire and bakes bread over it. And with the rest? He makes a god. He carves an idol and bows down in front of it.
Half of it he burns. Over that half he cooks meat, roasts it, and eats his fill. He warms his hands and says, "There we go — nice and warm, good fire." And the other half? He turns it into a god. His god. He falls on his face before it and prays: "Save me! You are my god!"
They don't know. They can't see it. Their eyes are shut, their hearts are sealed. No one stops to think — no one has the clarity to say, "Wait. Half of this wood I burned for fuel. I baked bread on it. I roasted dinner on it. And now I'm going to bow down to the leftover piece? Am I really worshipping a block of wood?"
He's feeding on ashes. A deceived heart has dragged him off course. He can't rescue himself, and he can't even bring himself to ask: "Isn't there a lie in my right hand?"