With His own hands, God fixes broken me,
He tows to His religious service garage,
where He gives a celestial tune-up free,
but when I'm real sick, He comes to my lodge.
He doesn't mind some oil on His hands,
He pulls out prayerful tools for my repair,
He puts me on a diet of commands
for driving right, as He observes with care.
When I of course have accidents again,
I’m at His sacramental body shop;
to keep me from another traffic sin,
He sends me to a clerical-collar cop.
So thanks, Lord, for Your spiritual service Church,
when my poor mobile soul begins to lurch.
-- by Pete Voelz 7/05
No comments:
Post a Comment