The Funeral

The girls sat in their seats,
In their pressed school uniforms.
How the church echoed with their grief,
As I walked through the doors.

I saw her on the steps,
With the stitches in her face,
But found not a single word
To complement her sad embrace.

But don't you hang around,
There's a beautiful night out there.
But on your favourite pair of shoes,
And tie a ribbon in your hair.

'Cos as that hour hand rolls by,
There's a longing in his wake,
That with each slow degree
Would wain a little heart-ache.

My God Doesn't Live Under Little Boys' Beds

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.

I've Done You Wrong

I've done You wrong,
Since I was up to your knee.
My hair down to my shoulders,
And my heart upon my sleeve.

But how many beers,
And how many cigarettes,
Could blur or blind my vision
Of Your graciousness?

'Cos I'm just a boy
Who never learned to swim.
I'm standing on the edge,
Afraid of jumping in.
This swimming pool's
Full of children and old men:
Half float round like the leaves,
The other pushing deeper in.