Thursday, 3 June 2010


I met a man one sunday morn,
he was headed off to church,
his Bible tattered, ripped, and torn
from years of deep research.

He asked me, "Won't you come along?
Come worship, learn, and pray.
Repent the things you're doing wrong
and learn to just obey.

I see you've got a heavy pack
that's full of God knows what
He will forgive if you turn back.
Repent your life of sin and smut!"

"Well, sir," said I, "we've never met,
and yet you've prejudged me.
I don't know you, but I regret
that I must disagree.

You've taken God and stuffed him in
a cramped and tiny little box.
One day a week you meet with him
in your tiny little flocks.

You hear things you already knew
until your faith revives.
And when it's done you go back to
your happy little lives

But the God I always knew
fills much more space than yours
You couldn't even get him through
those tiny little doors

He lives in every single soul
who cares for those he loves
The ones that rescue, guard, console,
and heal his broken doves.

There's teachers who devote their lives
to showing children wrong from right
And who knows what deep valour drives
The cops who keep you safe at night

There's doctors who will fight to save
a child who can't be healed
There's soldiers who go to their grave
to be a helpless stranger's shield

And parents struggling with their bills
to keep God's children warm and fed
have sacrificed all of life's thrills
to give his lambs a soft warm bed.

All these men and women prove
this faith of which you speak
they worship him with every move
all seven days throughout the week

And when they die he'll welcome them
with trumpets and with song
these lowly sinners you condemn
were walking like him all along

For this is what the Lord prefers
when he showed the narrow Way:
That our faith be not in words
but in loving action every day.

I suppose that I could try to be
like those behind your church's door
Or you could come along with me
and help me feed the sick and poor."

"Your pack's not full of sin and smut,
or stuffed with some poor sucker's riches?"
"No, sir," said I, "Not riches, but
some apples, milk, and sandwiches."

Alas he turned and walked away.
"The sermon's nearly started..."
But I had one more thing to say.
I called to him as he departed,

"Your church is just an old stone box
with people sitting on a pew.
God doesn't care for cold dead rocks.
He'd rather live in the Church of You."

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