Or,
Spare us the ineffable harm of the intellectual, the Antichrist—
(All who oppose us oppose Jesus—but didn't He say, In my house are many mansions?)
Prince of Peace!
(Peace, in a pig's eye.)
A mighty fortress.
Onward, Christian soldiers.
The Son of God Goes Forth to War.
He hath loosed the fateful lightning of His terrible
swift sword—
All the clayfaces, upturned to the ceramic excellence
of the dominie
Let us pray:
Father, forgive them—
The hypocrites!
Perhaps some—the widow kneeling in the stained-glass effulgence—clutching her mite—debating love against appetite—a possibly hungrier widow against bread and her own belly—she might see God there—
Our organ cost thirty-six thousand dollars and has five keyboards
God,
we migrants, traveling with galaxy, sun, slogging sphere, geological budge of continent, movement of races, American transportation, feet,
we
on our journey-forever in time-space
are sure as hell, unmistakably, definitely—as the saying goes—
en route.
Hence,
I deem the status quo of ego
unimaginative.
Is this a sin?
A sin to hunger for more Light?
Or is it
goodness
to reject the surrounding brilliance—call it The Dark—in order to make personal hay with the pewee flashlight of Episcopalianism.