The Preacher Ruminates

Lyrics
I think it must be lonely to be God Nobody loves a master. No. Despite The bright hosannas, bright dear-Lords, and bright Determined reverence of Sunday eyes Picture Jehovah striding through the hall Of his importance, creatures running out From servant-corners to acclaim, to shout Appreciation of His merit's glare But who walks with Him?–dares to take His arm To slap Him on the shoulder, tweak His ear Buy Him a Coca-Cola or a beer Pooh-pooh His politics, call Him a fool? Perhaps–who knows?–He tires of looking down Those eyes are never lifted. Never straight Perhaps sometimes He tires of being great In solitude. Without a hand to hold
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Credits
- Writers
- Gwendolyn Brooks