You say you’re holy,, I said, yeah, like a sieve,
Who are you trying to kid? You can’t find God where you live.
I’ve read all His books,, been to see Him in Rome,
(The place sure had nice ceilings, but there was nobody home.)
But I’m sure that if He was to reveal Himself,
It’d be to someone like me with the good book on his shelf.
It seems like you’re jealous that He’s talking to me,
I sent no invitations, but He came anyway.
I was just at the office, compiling errata,
I looked down at my hands, and I had the stigmata.
And ever since that day, I’ve seen God everywhere,
In each leaf that trembles, and when I’m washing my hair.
How can that be the case? It doesn’t seem fair.
I’m the one with the relics, and a shirt made of hair.
I don’t know what to tell you. It isn’t that grand,
How can I lie on the beach when he’s in each grain of sand?
And I keep having visions, and I can’t get to sleep
Seeing the blood of the lamb makes it hard to count sheep.
I know that I’m fickle. It’s from my mother’s side,
Here’s what she told me on the day that she died:
She said, ‘There’s this world and that one, and this one’s more fun,
Eternity’s lovely, but it tends to run on.
‘So if you see an angel, or a burning bush,
Stick your nose in your book, dear, and try not to look.’