” O M G ” a poem for Sunday, the 1st day of December, in the year of our Lord 2 0 1 9
“God. You’re hurting us. God. You’re hurting us. Hurting us all the time.”
I, GOD, try to stop up my ears, but their incessant murmuring is SO SUBLIME,
THAT I JUST CAN’T HELP HEARING THEM.
“God. You’re hurting us.” So, I just wait,
Until THEY REALIZE THEY’RE JUST HURTING THEMSELVES;
And, perhaps, it is their fate,
That they just can’t realize THAT NO ONE HURTS THEM; only them.
“God. You’re hurting us. Stop hurting us. Oh, God, please. AMEN.”
Even when I tell them: “OK, YOUR WISH IS GRANTED,”
It only relieves them for a short while;
Then, with renewed fervor, they have chanted,
FOREVER and EVER in Time and Space:
“God. Stop hurting us.” But, actually, I’M NOT EVEN HERE; yes, The Human Race,
Is ALL ALONE, Complaining and sad,
Blaming. Ranting MOST DAYS awfully mad.
Occasionally, they’ll STOP, but I think they’re addicted,
To blaming and fault finding; still, “I,” GOD they haven’t evicted,
For they like to hold me hostage in The House of The Lord;
IT GIVES ‘EM SOMETHING TO DO.
Bitter gall they? [WE ALL] have poured.
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