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My God Does Not Sit Upon A Throne
It is the condition of man
To reflect upon his God,
Mine does not sit upon a throne
Neither is he a Prince of the Church.
His seat is a wooden crate
In some corner of the Earth
I shall never see.
His poverty is ours
He swings his arms in a wide arc
Forever to keep warm.
This house of the Lord
Has not many mansions,
Is rather a ramshackle hut.
The fires of the earth
Tremble with the breeze
When he wheezes
On a damp and chilly night.
Wherever I go he follows me
With mute and pleading eyes,
He controls not the weather
That was a long time ago, The
seas no longer roll back
When he raises his arms,
The tides have gone their own way Ever
since.
His children grown to manhood
Have left the hearth,
Continually mock him by their absence.
He lingers furtively in the shadows
Knows not of prayer,
He asks nothing of me
His silence is absolute,
Yet his eyes
Move with the clouds
Across a moonlit sky,
Touch me with their clarity
In this compassion I heal myself.
Jack Mashman
1981 |
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