Advent: Day Six

Psalm 115

Forging silver, hammering out
the hollow hands of gods.
Melting down our precious gold,
removed from the dainty boxes

that sing to us simple songs
of praise, power, and possession
when the wooden tops are lifted off.
Hold the hands of our idols above

the hot, half-melted, viscous gold
and then dip them to declare them
holy. But these idols, they are dead,
they have mouths but they never speak truth,

these idols have eyes that never see.
Ears but pridefully they won't hear,
Noses pierced but useless to the
building aroma of their own burning stench.

Laziness concretes their listless feet,
as they have ability but never walk.
And as the vanity hardens on their hands,
it is sealed that they will never feel.

These gods we cast in metals bright,
the next metaphor for our stiff necks.
But this is direct, we no longer build idols
from the clay, the sticks, or the dust,

no, the modern idols are us.

Day 52: Morning

Psalm 106

In the desert they gave in to their craving;
in the wasteland they put God to the test.
So he gave them what they asked for,
but sent a wasting disease upon them.

They exchanged their Glory
for an image of a bull, which eats grass.

We eat chinese on the floor
right next to our prayers.
Amazonians walk miles,
all the while eyes stay
fixed ahead, asking.
We nail mezuzahs to the door
right next to the unpainted.
We stained the symbol,
chiseled the word,
expect blessing.
We ask the wind what its for
and whom it winnows away.
The Elkhart ends in
the Lake Michigan,
we jump in.
We rise again and praise our
buoyancy, our lucky stars,
all that is "ours" screams
that we are missing
all the Glory.