What would heaven be like
     if books of theology
were written by children not men?

And what if sermons were delivered by the poor.
And devotional books were written by the hungry.
And hymns were composed by the sick and the old.

The Sermon on the Mount requires no interpretation,
unless you are fat and happy.

If our hope of heaven were colored
with children’s crayons and felt tip markers.

And our theology of hell were tempered
by the dying breath of those who suffer.

The hair-splitting and hand-wringing
of over-educated men in ivory towers
goes largely unnoticed by grandmothers in their kitchens
and office workers in their cubicles.

They go on putting silly magnets on their fridge
And trading forwarded e-mails about heaven.
Two thousand years of systematic theology
Disturbs them not a bit!

God is honored and praised
     Hoped for and prayed to
By myriads who never learned Greek.

Their revelation is not a scroll
     But a hope vaguely imprinted
On a soul made by God.

The sick and the blind and the poor
     Receive Jesus with gladness.
The Gospels require no spiritualized application.

Feed us, friend Jesus.
     Our stomachs are empty.
You are the one our hearts hope for.

Heal us who are sick.
     We ache and we suffer.

Save us in death.
     We are dying in darkness.
Savior Jesus, our hope at life’s end.

The Cyber-Psalms