Artisans in the workshops of Roman Syria polish solid discs of bronze and tin into highly reflective surfaces. They grind the heavy metals with crushed pumice and fine river sand until the material returns a clear image. Sweat drops onto the hot alloy as metalworkers hammer the sheets into flat circles measuring eight inches across. The air smells of burning charcoal and raw copper.
Textual scholars trace the Syriac manuscripts containing these early hymns to the Orontes River valley during the second century a.d. Antioch served as the administrative capital of the region and stood about 300 miles north of Jerusalem. Trade routes brought raw copper from Cyprus and heavy tin from the east to supply the local foundries. The urban population of the city exceeded 200,000 Gentile and Jewish residents under Emperor Hadrian and provided a massive market for domestic luxury goods.
Wealthy buyers purchase these polished metal discs to examine their own faces for physical flaws. The thirteenth hymn from the collection of Solomon adopts this exact domestic object as the central mechanism for human self-examination. The text equates the Creator with this polished bronze surface and instructs the observer to see him clearly. The writer commands the reader to wipe all physical dirt away from the metal.
A clear reflection demands a brutal confrontation with the grime on the skin.
Looking directly at the reflective metal forces the viewer to acknowledge every scar and layer of street filth. The author of the hymn demands an immediate and permanent removal of this dirt. The cleansed face must then maintain its pristine state without acquiring new stains from the surrounding world. The heavy metallic mirror simply waits on the table for the next inspection.