I imagine when Jesus comes back he's going to
Invite us all to a gathering

"Bring your Bibles!!"

And some might bring snacks and some might
give up vices

And we will stand with him in some great courtyard he has God build

In a different country,
That feels like a football stadium…
Or a Colosseum.

He will tell us to put the books in a pile.

He will light a cigarette after everyone is settled and quiet

"Sweet Me, that's good"

And the match he uses to light it will be
tossed lovingly onto the Bible pile

And we will hear the ghosts of old Kings sing songs of freedom as the smoke carries them out into space.

No one will understand but our mouths will move and shape harmonies that crest over the sunset horizon

Jesus uses his cigarette like a baton, conducting a chorus to the dead white men undeserving of our hymns.

But they did his work.

So our lips lull them into God's hands

We didn't notice but the pile is burning in time with the cigarette. All the world's Bibles,

Except for one locked in the safe of a librarian who was skeptical that Jesus really returned.

He sits in front of a tv waiting for an explosion, miles away from the smolder, yet his lips move too.

He cries because he doesn't know why he sings.

We cry because we do.

The cigarette burns out and Jesus awkardly apologizes. He's not really sorry though.

After all it's our fault, were the ones who believed him.