You watch us praying in darkening days.
You watch us avoiding praying
while you make your way.
You leave foot prints to the dung-hill
and around, in creation,
which indicates that
a truly great creator has been at work
and has been by.

But then you let evil triumph and goodness wither
and we get confused.
What kind of a God are you and
what is this game of thrones you
seem to be playing?

When we say we do not believe,
your SpiritĀ asks what kind of God we do not

believe in and then
she agrees
and points back to you.
The sense that makes is infuriating.

Like we have some kind of bullseye on our head.

I wish you were not so shy.
I wish you did not hide behind pillars
of cloud and smoke
or fire.

When you pass you push us into caves so
that we do not die from your glory.
And then you give us gifts.
And then you don’t.

We do not know who you are.
You refuse even to be named.
But we love you as if not doing so
is preposterous.

Even when you seem to desert us,
we look for you
from the corner of our eyes,
pretending not to.
And that fire-light from you
shines on us when we pray,
which makes not believing in you
all the harder.

And the more we pout,
the more you smile.
Which would be infuriating if it were not
the rope we need.

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