Neither shalt thou go up by steps unto mine altar,
that thy nakedness be not discovered thereon.

       Exodus 20:26

God remains incomprehensibly remote:
absorbed in his heavenly court
receiving worship from cheraphim
attending to His golden lampstands and incense altars
elders perpetually casting crowns before him
angels opening seals, loosing plagues
and spilling bowls of judgement to celestial trumpets . . .

always on the verge of binding Satan for a thousand years—
but never quite delivering on that promise.

(I can’t tell whether it’s a wheel full of eyes
or a four-faced serabim)

Commanding to wring the necks of doves
inside earthenware containers
over running water
while clutching scarlet thread . . .
Stairs yes— ramps no
(or is it the other way round?)

Wait—which set of wings covered their feet?

Does He ever get sick of them constantly crying out HOLY HOLY HOLY ?
I would — after half an eternity . . .

write a poem that argues against, or somehow questions, a proverb or saying

Neurotic liberals need a faith,
because they are unprepared to die.
Their church: Fake News. So Fauci sayeth—
they trust that Science cannot lie.

So in that place where God should dwell
within their barren prideful souls,
they substitute, for fear of Hell
their data-driven useless goals.

But what is true today may change . . .
like Darwin’s creed (and other lies)
and Truth has power to derange
beheld by Christ-rejecting eyes.