What will we do for fun

When he have torn ourselves apart

When we have disassembled our own limbs

One well made point at a time

and there are security systems

in the place of our heart

What will we do when the conflicts are gone

When all our best bloody stones have fallen silent

When our issues lie like trash all around

It used to be fresh and marketable

Wonderfully said and impressive, too

But now just smells, strewn on the ground

When the great opinions are mute

and lie

diffused

spent

When all there is instead is:

The weight of your own Christianity

Upon your own head

What will you do on that day

Will you rise from the silent theater

and put your hand to the plow?

Or will you look back and mourn that the audience has been murdered

By their own toxic grudges

And a few of your own

Now only He watches from the peanut gallery

Applauding every mud pie you make

Having at last captured your complete devotion

He cheers you on as you totter across

On your tender new legs

He listens with interest as you tell

Your brush with the Whale in the watery hell

He tapes it to His refrigerator door

And acts like He didn't know it until you told

Letting you find out for yourself

In your long sweet time

That He was both the storm that drown you

And the Whale that devoured you

And pushed you out again

And the warm shore to receive you at the end

(What! Not the rebirth you were expecting?)

And then, surprised

having somehow misplaced your angst

in all of this hubbub and stomach acid

Find that you are clean

His arms have gathered you again

Your whale belly may be

Many things

Do not be in too great of a hurry

To leave it

For

The Belly of the whale

Is the womb of God