A Body Out of Shape [a poem]

Lord it seems to me
your body is all out of shape
and the world stares aghast
at this malformed oaf
denouncing so much
with its huge lips
obscuring the heart.

We teeter on tiny legs
staggering
from judgment to scandal
gesticulating wildly
as lives slip from our too few hands.

Lord, it seems to me
your gospel has too many mouths
and too few legs,
too many talking heads
swollen with self importance,
and not enough hands
blistered from touching the pain
of a world bent on self immolation.

Lord, it seems to me
your church has too many men
wearing suits and ties
when a labourer’s shirt is what’s needed,
so many execs in black shiny shoes
when your sandals were frayed
and dust caked from walking;
and Lord, it seems to me
your rescue effort is staffed
by too many women with microphone-lapels
when the tools that you gave us
were the basin and the towel

by Kristin Jack, who lived with his family for 17 years in Cambodia. From his book Poetry and Prophecy