Within these walls
I wrote this after visiting a very famous charismatic church it's unfair to name it.
I have been churches where the walls have rang with praises.
I have sang the music. I have said the rhyme.
But a voice often disturbs me amongst the hallelujahs,
"Is that all that we ate doimg, just having a good time?"
Do the words that we are singing and the music we are hearing,
Make a difference to our living and the way we act outside?
For within these walls it is easy to believe it.
Within these walls, it is easy to decide.
I have heard of suffering, I have seen it on the telly!
I have dipped into my pocket, my wealth I've not denied.
I've joined with other voices when I've heard about injustice.
I have added my voice in protest, I have sat and cried.
Yet how often have I seen another in need of human comfort,
I've turned my face away and walked on the other side.
For within these walls, it is easy to believe it.
Within these walls, it is easy to decide.
if Sunday faith is real, it must be real on Monday.
Our worship should effect how we live on Monday morn
Our heavenly father must be weeping at the way that things are going.
We who sing of healing, must heal a world that's torn.
Maybe we don't believe the words that we are singing.
We say, " we have faith", the truth is we have lied.
For within these walls, it is easy to believe it.
Within These Walls, it is easy to decide.
Peppa Pig
He clutches his Peppa Pig tight to his side,
lest the bumps and the twists of the wheelchair should throw it to the floor.
A treasured possession a much loved toy ,
That even on so short a trip, he would not leave behind at the door.
Then waiting at the crossing his father kneels down and gently kisses his son.
Unashamedly, in front everyone showing his love for his child.
As he waits for the red man to go green, his focus only on his son.
Whose eyes lit up and face smiled.
For he knows deep down that one day Peppa Pig will be gone.
To be replaced by another toy or game.
He will always have a place in his Father’s heart
And that love will always be the same.
And I passing slowly in my car
Who through the bumps and twists of time have lost much I used to love .
Know the confidence to love again,
Because I am loved by my father up above.
I Cannot Talk
I cannot talk.
I wanted to write a poem called “I cannot breathe”.
To make awareness of darkness others walk,
To illuminate the hidden injustice of prejudice and hate,
to inform about racism,
but I find,
I cannot talk.
I cannot talk.
Not because I'm dumb
or gagged by oppression,
or had my tongue pulled out.
But because it's better to keep silent and have others think you're stupid,
than open your mouth and remove all doubt.
Because a bumble bee dies once having stung.
But Wasps can sting many times in panic flight.
As a male,
White
Anglo
Saxon
Protestant.
I find my sting sometimes brings pain more than light.
Although I refuse to apologise for my gender, my faith or the colour of my skin,
I cannot deny the privilege it's given me,
or the position I am in.
I must act or I cannot talk.
God’s given me one mouth.
Double
Hands,
Legs,
Ears.
So, by nature I'm designed to use the two twice as much as the one.
But often, I don't start listening, I don’t start doing, until the talking is done.
When I do help, I let the others speak,
I am thinking the next words that I'm going to say.
I am aware of my prejudice.
Yet it is my principles and priorities but really get in the way.
When I bust the bubble of my self-belief.
When I find time for not my own, but others walk.
When I have made time to really listen and to help.
Then maybe, I can I actually talk.
If Only
If only he had stuck to doing miracles.
Healing the sick,
Turning water into wine
Giving sight to the blind,
Helping lame men walk.
Then everything would have been fine.
But he would tell them to carry the bed on the Sabbath, say their sins were forgiven.
He did at times ignore the law,
Do things that were forbidden.
If only he'd been content to just be;
A holy man,
A wise teacher,
An enlightened wood Carver
if only he had not said he was the son and God was his Father.
If only he had only given fish and bread.
Not have offered us his flesh and blood.
Maybe his popularity would have grown
and his ministry wouldn’t have been so hard.
If only he had just told people to love their country,
Their family,
Their God.
If only he had not said love your enemies.
Give to the poor.
Take the road that is hard.
If only he hadn't mocked the Pharisees,
Criticised those who had wealth.
If only he hadn't told us to carry our cross.
He wouldn't have carried one himself
If only being a Christian was just about going to church
Put in a fiver in the collection plate.
Be nice to people in the pews
If only we didn't need to change our ways.
To comfort the distressed,
Share the good news
If only it was not a lifetime commitment
A daily pilgrimage,
A selfless denial.
Maybe more would join us and come to church.
If only we made it easier and less worthwhile.
If Only
