We keep wanting to build houses to contain you, O God,
and we keep thinking we are doing you a favor
when we make the offer.
The blueprints change across the generations,
from stone altars and pillars
to steeples and pews,
but they are all attempts to put you in a gilded cage.
But you are always on the move, God, aren’t you?
You are a constant migrant, refusing to stay put inside any box
we construct for you, no matter how nice it may be.
You wouldn’t take up old King David,
on his offer, not even with all his glory,
but instead choose to dwell
in the womb of an anybody
from a forgettable town
as your first house.
How you keep surprising us—
showing up where we least expect,
and then slipping out the back door
to be loose in the world yet again.
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