on the side
off the mall
I found in night
the alter of a drunk
a stuff green frog
wet cigar ****
impaled his red throat
and not enough empty liquor
a straightened up cup
four fifths with rain
colored with ****
long left us with his abyss
he'll never get anywhere
with worship like this

but still there is a space
like a secret

maybe, does
Neil Gaiman know about this

There's this thing about worship
that I often forget.

You see it's not just this thing
that we do on Sunday.
It's every day;
Every breath and movement of our hands
is done because we understand
that God's grace is not a prize we won.

It was a selfless giving of His only son
that He gave to rend our chains undone
and bring us into relationship with Him
by the victory over sin that we proclaim He won!

Yet somehow life still becomes some kind of rat race
trying to appear holy and saving face
with no admittance that we still need grace
and our response to that grace just kind of...

Disappears.

And then I wonder why I don't see His face,
why I'm not moved by His Word
why I'm not changed by His grace.
I wonder why I don't want Him around,
while my wrists are secretly bound
with shackles I like too much to take off.

But on Sunday morning I pray to be free
to realize that this Jesus did die for me
so that I could be with Him where He is one day,
yet day to day, I almost never say

God, I need you, and I'm not okay.

And I know it doesn't have to be this way!
I know He gave His Spirit, He promised that He'd stay
With me until the end of the age
and even in my deepest darkness His love for me is still the same
But God, oh God, I'm so ashamed
of all the things I've done while periodically praising Your name.

But there is no condemnation from You, You say.
You invite me to turn and run away
Into your arms and that I'll be changed--
That You will give me a new heart
and remove all of this shame
If I'd just confess my sin to You, You'd take the pain.

So I beg, and beg, that every day
My response to You would be the same
To run to You and admit my need
For Your grace, for Your love
above everything.

That I'd never not be responding
with my life, my work, and all my talking
to the Christ that stepped into time
to make me His, and make Him mine.

Worship is fingers
Awry offering baskets
And ventures 'morrow.

When God created the world
He was so kind to give us eyes
So we could see the wonder
And beauty he placed around us
So we could admire the vast ocean
And the painted sunset sky
And the wildflowers that bloom
Alongside the highway

When God created the world
He was so kind to give us ears
So we could hear the songs
And the rhythm of the earth
So we could listen to the birdsong
And the rustle of the wind
And the cadence of the raindrops
Falling on the rooftops

When God created the world
He was so kind to give us voices
So we could laugh together
And cry on each other's shoulders
So we could share advice
And tell one another stories
And whisper secrets
In the dead of the night

Here am I
Amongst thousands
And thousands
Of voices -
Poets and journalists,
Novelists and singers -
Clanging the cymbal
Of earth's groaning cry.
There you are,
Hosts of angels
Singing, your voice
Together sounding
The praises of our God.

read my body like a bible,
let your tongue be the bookmark
that browses my pages,
and embeds between my spine
right where it shouldn't;
say my name like a prayer,
and i'll worship the shrine
under your stomach
like a god— my god!
let me lick the statuette

The songmaker is my shepherd; I shall not despair.
His melodies make me lie down in green meadows;
His chords lead me by still waters.
He restores my soul, and leads me in the path of harmony.
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of silence,
I will not fear loneliness, for you are with me; your blues guitar
responds to me, your notes like raindrops wash away tears.
You prepared a table for me in the high school cafeteria.
You quickened my pulse; my ecstasy was with you.
Surely comfort and joy will follow me all the days of my life,
and I will dwell in the Houses of the Holy, for evermore.

The Monetary Moai
Standing on the shore
Making sure you worship them
Making sure they get more.

More of your offerings
More of your respect
Even if the have to take you
And hang you by the neck.

The Moai are important
With their grant-faced stare.
You may or may not like them
But they don’t have to care.

They are the gods to you,
And you the fools that revere them.
You put them on their pedestals;
Stop others from coming near them.

You, the ones who refuse
To question them and their power
Have made them the gods they are
Right up until their final hour.

It they ever revert to the truth
As just strange hunks of stone
Maybe then you will leave them
Ignored, disintegrating and alone.

But as long as these monoliths
Represent something good to you
There is nothing that the rest of us
Can, by resisting them, can ever do.

We can talk and chant and rant
And tell you that you are all fools
But it was your hands that put them up
Your effort, superstitions and tools.

God in a devils suit
Top hat man trap
Corporation God.
A Rod for your back
You are offering me your taxes
You owe big
He says as he smokes his cigarette
and looks at your bill
"Worship me in your nightmares
and daydreams
Scream my name in your games and magazines
I see your shame the pain behind your sin
I made you, you can't even win
When you die your soul belongs to me"
What are we but slaves
To a god who wants us to worship
In this imperfect world of scripture
Should we all worship him with rapturous applause
Or throw down the gauntlet and ******* come from our jaws
If love is our god then let us love without favouritism
Love can heal any hurt and stop cataclysm
and it'll stretch further than capitalism...