Go on then, God.
Act it out
Put your money where your mouth is:
You say that’s what you’re about
The Word fleshing out,
lifting Isaiah’s cries off the page
making them Matthew’s memoirs of Herod’s rage.
Well, that’s all very well way back when
Being Immanuel then is nice enough
But what’s that to do with me today?
I could really use a Messiah right now
Do you do house calls, Mr Soul Doctor?
OK, I wouldn’t call myself a cessationist, but
I don’t FEEL very spiritually keen
in this flabby, fatigue-ridden body with these dull-as-dishwater people I see
if that’s not too gnostic of me.
How can God be divine if he’s left me alone?
What? You want to use ME now? Well, fuck.
You refuse me my Xbox and fancy chocs and would have me give away
my second coat to Lady Muck
or perhaps my neighbour Lord Lazy of Skid Row?
Not likely, kiddo, I’ve earned those things.
And I deserve a little break from my hard work moaning, don’t I?
Someone’s got to tell everyone else they’re wrong. Right?
Come, Holy Spirit.