storm

in the sanctuary
hundreds of people open
their good books
and it's the sound of leaves
rustling in the tops of trees
and all I can think of
is wind and storm,
violence
not love.

the whisper of prayers from
a thousand lips is
a mushroomcloud of moths fluttering
the silver dust from their wings
falling like ash.

the clap of a hundred raised hands
is the distant clatter
of mortars exploding,
all the killing done in
the name of Whatever
flavor of the week
we're worshipping.

and all the words they use
are bruised and faded,
bleached of worth;
He is hiding in the subtext,
behind tongues,
before birth.

who can hope to understand
the complex mess we've made
of earth?
not the books and not the lips
and not the hands
for He is hiding
and is deaf to our demands,
beyond tongues,
beyond death,
such amazing love
to let us live,
breath by labored breath?