| |
Love wants to reach out and manhandle us, |
| Break all our teacup talk of God |
| |
| If you had the courage and |
| Could give the Beloved His choice, some
nights, |
| He would just drag you around the room |
| By your hair, |
| Ripping from your grip all those toys in the
world |
| That bring you no joy. |
| |
| Love sometimes gets tired of speaking sweetly |
| And wants to rip to shreds |
| All your erroneous notions of truth |
| |
| That make you fight within yourself, dear
one, |
| And with others, |
| |
| Causing the world to weep |
| On too many fine days. |
| |
| God wants to manhandle us, |
| Lock us inside of a tiny room with Himself |
| And practice His dropkick. |
| |
| The Beloved sometimes wants |
| To do us great favor: |
| |
| Hold us upside down |
| And shake all the nonsense out. |
| |
| But when we hear |
| He is in such a "playful drunken
mood" |
| |
| Most everyone I know |
| Quickly packs their bags and hightails it |
| Out of town. |
| |
