You said no heart has imagined,
but you gave a few hints
of a massive mansion, a river
and a fruit tree with 12 varieties,
spouting monthly.

You said we couldn't imagine
what you've got prepared,
but I can't imagine anything beats
a Coronation Chicken sandwich,
with Branston,
on a warm summer's afternoon
with friends and laughter
and Monty's head
resting hopefully on my knee.

You called it paradise
and you mentioned wine.
If that comes with a new body -
one that doesn't protest
to a fine Merlot
then that'll be fine with me.
That would be paradise.
That'll be heaven indeed.
So long as you don't forget
the Coronation Chicken
and the pickle.

It's not that I hold my zeal in check.
It's always burning in my gut
coming out in different forms
as befits the ocassion:
compassion with tears,
generosity with wine,
challenge with disappointment,
each tempered with discernment,
watching my Father
and what's on his mind.

And yes, on this ocassion
that called for the grip of a whip,
for upset tables
and upset temple authorities.

They had taken their eye off their Father
and missed the whole point
of God's temple.
They had replaced prayer with profit.

I'm always zealous
and, yes, sometimes it's right
that I shout its fierce light.

Sometimes they need to be reminded
of just whose house this is.

"On the third day a wedding took place at Cana in Galilee.
Mary was there with Jesus
and she nudged her son: 
'The wine has finished. This - is - not - good.' 
And Jesus said, 'Mum. Not now'. 

And Mary said 'Listen to your mother.' 
And Jesus sighed.

And Mary told the servants, 
"Do whatever he tells you." 
Then Jesus saw that it was no use arguing. And he said, "let the jars be filled with water". 
And they rolled the stone jars in front of him.
And then Jesus said, "Let there be wine". 
And they poured the wine.
And it was so - very - good.

And Mary smiled to herself,
thinking how Joseph would have loved this, 
and she whispered to Jesus: 
'This just the start you know.' 
And he did, - and it was. 

There was a mother's faith 
and gallons of glorious wine. 
And there was a mother's smile
at the sight of her son
and of this start of his new-vintage Kingdom 
with this original third day miracle. 
A sign of things to come.

And there was a party and singing 
and much laughter, 
with the Son dancing with his mother
into the evening - a Fine Third Day.

I place my faith in the Good Shepherd,
in his clear voice, one I knew I knew,
seeking me out, drawing me in
from the dark.

I place my faith in the Good Shepherd,
in his broad shoulders as he lifts me,
carrying me back to good pasture,
back home.

I place my faith in the battered shoulders of Jesus,
shoulders forgiving enough to haul a cross,
strong enough to bear my full weight
whatever the cost.

Yes, I believe in the shoulders of Jesus,
shoulders broad enough for every black sheep,
strong enough when we are lost
and when we are weak.

I believe in the shoulders of Jesus –
throwing his arms welcome wide
and lifting me into this embrace,
safe from all wolves and the thickest of thickets.

I believe in the shoulders of Jesus
betraying His Father’s family trait
of rescue and acceptance.

I believe in the good shoulders of Jesus.
That’s where I place my faith.

The red folk and the purple people were distinctive in their hue.  In contrast, the Set Up bunch were chameleon, and to the casual observer they could pass for members of the congregation. That was by design, to be known only by their levite nature, their early arrival and late departure and (if you looked closely) by their hands.
The early bunch had remarkable hands. They were strikingly ready and willing, and could be turned to a wide variety of tasks.
They could never be described as specialist, and would never wish to be.  Their true specialty, if they have one, is only to be quick to serve and never draw attention to themselves.  
If they were ever persuaded to wear team tee shirts, they would have 'Ninja' brazoned across the back.  And that would be kinda cool.

I know Jesus can't turn in his grave
(because, well you know).
But if he could,
He'd be spinning most Sundays.

What is it about a national flag
draped over shoulders,
tied at the neck
or wrapped like a toga
that makes me cross the road?
Why do I suspect it covers anger?
Why do I hear a shout of challenge,
rather than a song of honour?
Was it too many urban marches?
Flying London bricks?
And cracked skulls?
Let's put flags beyond reach
on flag poles,
and preferably not at half mast.