Boys play in the mud on rainy days: boys will always be boys.
We toss on our big yellow boots and our silly rubber coats.
You swiped a pair of dish-washing gloves from your kitchen;
You offer me a pair of your brother’s mittens.
There’s messy work ahead.
Boys play in the mud on rainy days:
We will always be boys.
We run and roll in the wet: an inborn love for cold and filth.
We scramble over the severed heads of Pagan gods:
Their mouths gape to reveal our sheep.
Our pockets stuffed with worms, the faithful of our flock,
We deliver them to the Church Below the Slide,
Safe from the wickedness and snares of the devil.
We run and roll in the wet,
An inborn love for cold and filth.
Unloved sons of absent fathers, we are bound to be priests.
We take our learning like good apostolic youth,
Instruction in Levitican laws and messianic promises
Yet unfulfilled, has prepared us for our duty:
Unloved sons of absent fathers,
We are bound to be priests
What other hope could we have, in the care of Christ alone.
You and I, wards of the state and sons of the church,
Twice abandoned by those who love us most,
Until one shall come again to judge,
And the other be judged and sentenced.
What other hope could we have,
In the care of Christ alone.
We find ourselves where we are meant to be,
You and I, the patron saints of things that crawl,
Preaching the Good Word of the Almighty Father
To our wriggling congregation.
We are exactly who we are meant to be:
We could be no one else.