My Thoughts are not your thoughts
by Penelope Wilcock

God, you are my God and you do not sleep.
As ceaseless as the drone of traffic on the motorway
as remote as the distant train rattling across the valley
Your watch continues, your silent sight

looking over our night,

the time of our forgetting.
Me, I am not like you, my God.
I am tired, and I cannot see the point,

and my eyes are closing.

You are the God of abundant life, the God

who dances in creation;

And I, I covet death because life is so difficult,
So fraught with responsibility, and because I fear

the end of mercy.

I am not like you.
And yet, for all that, I inch my way to your dwelling,
And drink in secret at your quiet springs of hope,
enough to keep me going.

And then you Jesus, the party-going Jesus,

life and soul of every occasion,

Never lost for words, and your words never lost:
I am not like you.
I have spoken words that cut and stung,

words that betrayed and trivialised.

And more often than not I can think of nothing to say,

nothing:

tongue tied and discourteous.
Jesus was not shy, and not afraid, and not starving for approval.
Jesus, he was not like me.

Your ways are not my ways and your thoughts not my thoughts,
Saith the Lord:
And I would be the first to agree with you there.
My sulking, smoking fire barely warms the grate,
While your blinding sun sets the winter sky ablaze.
But because my breath is your breath,
and because the flesh of Jesus is my flesh,
And because you stay awake to watch over me

when my tired eyes give up on the day,

I love you different God,
And I creep in at your side, calling you my friend.