XVIII: Looking for love

I looked for love everywhere.

I looked upstairs.
I looked behind the fridge.
I looked inside my pencil case
And underneath the bridge.
But it wasn’t there.

I looked for love – everywhere.

I looked under my pillow.
I looked inside my car.
I even looked up a girl’s skirt
And down her bra.
But it wasn’t there.

I looked for love – everywhere.

I searched through my drawers.
I combed through the grass.
I checked under my finger nails
During French class.
But it wasn’t there.

I looked for love – everywhere.

It wasn’t in England.
It wasn’t across the sea.
It wasn’t in the sky.
I found it in –
Me.

XVII: Gifts

The Lord has given you many gifts.
They’re inside you.
You are the wrapping paper for God’s gifts.
Your hair is the ribbon.

When I first realised that God has given me gifts
I tried to figure out what they were.
I shook myself lightly.
Put my ear to my chest.
Looked at my shape and tried to guess what was inside.
Turned myself upside down and rattled myself.

But it was no good.
Eventually I went back to God and asked sweetly if He could help.
And He opened me up.

XVI: What I'm told

God says do;
So I do.
God say don’t;
So I don’t.
But if He asks me to do that –
I won’t.

God says wait;
So I wait.
God says go;
So I go.
But if He tries to push me there –
I’ll say no.

God says ask;
So I ask.
God says pray;
So I pray.
But if He wants me to confront them –
I’ll run away.

God says hope;
So I hope.
God says try;
So I try.
But if He opens His arms like that –
I’ll cry.

XV: The divine image

Jesus in a manger,
Looking up at me,
While anger blazes through the world, and sometimes
Men are cheating and sometimes men are lying,
Crying.

Jesus in his mother’s arms
Looks up at me,
While in distant lands sword crosses sword,
And blood is watered down with tears,
And fears.

Jesus on a cross,
Looking out at me,
While a thousand thousand empty faces
Wait beyond the blackness, and far across the sea,
Patiently.

Jesus in a manger,
Looking up at me.

XIV: The glory of God

Welcome is every organ and attribute of me, and of any man hearty and clean,
Not an inch nor a particle of an inch is vile, and none shall be less familiar than the rest.
(Walt Whitman, Song of Myself: 3)

The glory of God is in my blood. Ooh, it feels good! It goes down my arteries and up my veins, into my ears and my toes. I tap my feet to its beat beat beat. I dance to its tune – the tune of the glory of God.

The glory of God is in my lungs. They fill up like pink balloons. I suck in as much as I can, I use it to sing and to shout. I let it settle on my tongue, mmmm, so cool and fresh, and then I purse my lips and whistle.

Yes – the glory of God is in me and it wants to get out. I shiver with the pleasure of it. It forces itself through my pores and trickles down my skin. I wipe it up but still it comes. I cut it off my hair and shed it off in dead cells. I cough it, I yawn it, I splutter it. Sometimes I have to spit it out because its sticking in my throat. God’s glory know no boundaries. It pushes itself through my fingernails and I hack it off. It clogs up my ears and my nose. I have to pick it out. I defecate it, I puke it, I ejaculate it. It even seeps out of my eyes – I cry with God’s glory because there’s so much inside me.

The glory of God is in my fingers. Ooh, it tingles and it lingers. It frizzes up my hair. Where did it come from? Where?