Steeple - Deborah Steinmair

I have this poem in a poetry collection by Deborah Steinmair and it speaks to me every time.

STEEPLE

Your church is as old as time

Lonely as the centuries

It lifts my soul to the sky

I lower my eyes

Your church is convenient

Prayer is no longer needed

Mother Mary prays to sweet Jesus for you

And the priest blesses your bread and meat

So you don't even need to say grace at the table

Your church is very fair

You don't even need to go there

All they ask is a monthly down payment on eternal salvation

Your church is high and pretty

And visible on the outside where it counts

Where people can see

The Bible says the real thing is inside

The real thing is hidden in the heart

Where the God who is no longer dead alone sees

The real thing is loving Jesus

Not the picture of a suffering saviour

But close like the breath of a friend

The real thing is a soft heart in your breast

The real thing knows no form or status

No ritual or ancient elegance

The real thing sat down, ate and drank wine

At the table of thieves and freaks and the poor

The real thing is Jesus alive

They would not recognise Him at the church door