Fresh Hell

 

I sat with God and begged him tell me why

The children he professed to love can die.

He said, “your human mind is limited in scope.

You’ll have to take it all on faith and hope.”

I asked him why he gave us little brains

Just strong enough to ask but not contain

The answers to the questions we would seek.

He said, “I’ll get back to you next week.”

I asked him why he we had so little choice.

I asked him why we couldn’t hear his voice.

I asked him why the pumpernickel rye

In my cupboard had to go all dry.

I asked him how, in his omnipotence,

He couldn’t get his people to make sense.

I asked him why the world was such a mess.

He said, “you’ve given me much to address.

I’ll fix it right away. Or in ten years.

Or maybe not at all. Why all the tears?

I am a loving God. I’ve so much love

I crucified my son. He’s dead but fine.

Isn’t it great? You are my children too.

Now I don’t have to do the same to you.

Once you had to smear blood on the door

But you don’t have to kill goats anymore.”

“My God, you wrote these rules,” I said in shock.

“Is blood the only thing you hold in stock?”

But God was getting bored. He waved a hand

And sent me off to join his choir band.

 

Years of faith and guilt were worth all this.

The streets are paved with gold. A miser’s bliss.

All day we sing our carols to His grace.

It might sound boring, singing in this place.

But praising in His name we are content.

Our wills are His, and He wants compliments.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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