My God doesn't live
In books full of poems
Written by dead men
Who never left their homes,
Or in old stone buildings,
Or deep catacombs,
Or in religious wars
From which no-one returns.
No, my God doesn't live
Under little boys' beds,
Waiting to strike
When they don't eat their veg.
In old cloistered walls,
Or intellectuals' heads,
Or in each passing day
That the setting sun sheds.
No, my God lives inside
Every Sunday School kid,
Every old widow dreaming
Of loving again.
In quiet men's dreams
And forceful men's actions.
Not in fighting to win,
But the Grace failure brings.
Not in laws and commands,
But the Spirit within,
Now convicting,
Now transforming,
Now comforting.
So it is that our hearts
In our chests they must sing.
To the rhythm of each day
The rising sun brings.
In books full of poems
Written by dead men
Who never left their homes,
Or in old stone buildings,
Or deep catacombs,
Or in religious wars
From which no-one returns.
No, my God doesn't live
Under little boys' beds,
Waiting to strike
When they don't eat their veg.
In old cloistered walls,
Or intellectuals' heads,
Or in each passing day
That the setting sun sheds.
No, my God lives inside
Every Sunday School kid,
Every old widow dreaming
Of loving again.
In quiet men's dreams
And forceful men's actions.
Not in fighting to win,
But the Grace failure brings.
Not in laws and commands,
But the Spirit within,
Now convicting,
Now transforming,
Now comforting.
So it is that our hearts
In our chests they must sing.
To the rhythm of each day
The rising sun brings.
