Christ doesn't live in a gold box.
    He lives within all our miseries.
    He lives in the slums and prisons,
    grungy dive bars and crack houses.
    
    His body is stale bread from soup kitchens.
    His blood is cheap wine shared on city grates.
    He offers hope to the hopeless and guidance
    to the lost souls. He suffers inside each of us.

There's nothing here.
There's nothing there.
I'm gone somewhere
but I don't know where.
I still feel love and pain
and all our up and downs.
Will you appear tomorrow a
visitor from outside the walls?
Will you bring a shadow of us
to fill the terrible nothing?

As honest as it gets. That scale
gives you your money's worth.
Weigh my love for you. Is it
even? Does your love balance?
Do my tears weigh the same?
Does my misery weigh the same?
Will my suicide move the scale?
Will your tears even it all out?
Love's a slaughterhouse. We
die in chutes always in love.

The night I saw you at Rugby's
was the night I was struck by
a bolt of lightning that woke
me to the wonders of Love.

I'm ancient.
Stuff seeps out.
Can't ignore it.
Always a stain
and smell of death
around the bend.

We worship on bar stools in smokey
  churches with neon gods and clergy
  behind the altar with the holy blood
  bottled in rows in front of mirrors.
  Our hymns play on a jukebox while
  we sway in harmony feeling the grace
  flowing between our souls as one.
  Our bible is the newspaper and we
  confess our sins to each other.
  At last call we're given absolution.

The righteous quote their bibles
  the sinners quote their poetry
  the desperate quote them both
  The suicides quote Van Gogh's
  stars he set afire and French Blue
  skies of birds cawing invitations.