11 Dec 2016 – Sonnet
A cushioned pew, a comfy place to pray at God
that saves us from the knife-edge walk, a carried cross.
A mausoleum where a pious coward-squad
keeps Truth’s demands at bay – and clinging to their dross.
We’ll keep the candles burning – we accept that task –
but not to feed the poor. Oh yes, we’ll sometimes fling
a crust or two of bread. Make sure it’s nicely asked,
since we deserve respect! We clip the Spirit’s wings
because we need for him to sit still in his pew.
We can’t expect decorum from our smallest kids
if things get unpredictable! What will we do
if irksome preachers ask of us what scripture bids?
We’ve got an IRA, who needs the Spirits breath
to animate a body that sure smells like death?