Barriers

No rood screen keeps us from the holy things;
The altar stands in clear view, raised only
By a few steps. If God meets man in bread and wine
He does so in a cosy, cheery way. The 'Word' is read,
And we are told he speaks to us through it,
And it is all so plain, a simple, gentle deal. But

Why am I afraid that something's hidden?
Something that cosy human clubs protect against.
That cheering ourselves up erects a screen
Far more impenetrable than any wood.
That treating human writings as his 'Word'
Deafens us to any still, small voice? When

Will we find the courage to face ourselves,
And trek towards our ancient thunder god
Who spoke in storm clouds to Moses on the mountain?
Or swim in an open sea with Leviathan, letting
Job's god who would not tell a cosy lie
Drown us and save us in waves millennia high?




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