Sacrilege

If you cannot see how divine

Is the yellow of the sun, 

The warmth curling down to your toes,

The warmth in the eyes of small animals

And birds soaring high,

Little shoots pushing through

The surface of the earth,

The swinging galaxies in the night sky,

The first bite of bread

After a long day,

The cup of water in the shade

Of a majestic tree,

A smile,

A laugh,

The warmth of a hearth

And a blanket

And the coolness of the fan

On a summer afternoon-

If you cannot see how divine

Is the rustling of leaves

And the gentle hum

Of the bee

Going about it’s tasks,

The unfurling of little petals

And children laughing

And the helping hand

Of a stranger pulling you

Up,

If you cannot see divine

Prayer

In the eyes of the addict,

The tattered roofless

Loveless homeless

Man, curled up on the park bench,

If you cannot see the godspark

In the beggar wandering the streets

And the hungry old man

Abandoned for death,

In sickness and madness and decay,

And loss and grief

And bloodshed

And stark, naked, shivering need-

If you cannot see how holy

Is the unwashed and unkempt,

The broken and the furtive,

The illicit,

If you cannot bow your lofty

Forehead

In awe to each one

And lift a face full of mud with a smile;

To you I say

Take your rosary and your mats

And your high arched halls

Of godliness,

Your teachings and your pretty words,

Your war of ‘you’ and ‘I’-

Take it far

And take it wide,

Pile it up high,

Worthy fuel it will provide

Your pyre, on, in

Hell.

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