lives in sanctuaries of gold
with windows of colored glass.
doesnt get His hands dirty
on the down side of town…
turns His head from the ugly,
from the smell and the stink…
walks on the other side of the street.
demands sterile cleaness,
prefers people of stature!
no touching, no feelings…
out of control!
our God walks the tracks
leading the lost home…
slept with us under the bridge,
and shared our pot.
sat with the addict,
spent time with the prisoner…
held the little girl’s hand
who was afraid of the dark.
washed clothes with us
in borrowed bathroom sinks.
wiped the tears from the old woman’s face
when the old man shuddered, moved on….
picked up the young whore’s clothes,
and led her from the room.
took the gun from the hand
of the man whose family
was just put out on the street…
stood in line with the jobless,
wearing worn out boots!
so tell me now,
and tell me true…
whose God do we worship now?