I
I think god is a working man
Who toils beneath his own wrought sun
And I think god, with callused hands
Wipes sweat from his brow when the day is done
II
And sayeth man in holy house
“God waves his hand and makes it so”
“Omnipotent” they firm intone
They make his work seem low
For creation comes not easily
As every workman knows
Its toil and sweat and no mean care
From which all his work grows
So to say that god, with a simple flourish
Rent everything from nothing
Ignores the thing which is it’s making
The trial of becoming
For in his image we were made
Each facet took ten thousand hours
And doubled o’er the lathe all day
He made himself in ours
III
Thus we are all god’s handiwork
His art and artisans
We are damascene, with filigree
And blades whetstoned by hand
We can stab to death or carve new flesh
We kill, create, or rust away
We are all knives in our own grasp
We at our feet do lay
And god casts out the wicked weeds
Stoops low and picks them down the row
But from the germ of roots he’s missed
The wicked weeds yet grow
So choose ye men, ye choosing men
Grow well beside your brothers
Or choke the young from earth and sun
And by god, be torn asunder
For god hates not the huddled masses
Yearning to be fed
He hates the man who from his brother
Wrings his daily bread
But god sees not in outstretched palms
A thing made in his image
He sees in the shine of a sweat slaked back
A mirror of his visage
IV
And the devil is a fighting man
With silver tongue he tempts the lord
“Survey those kingdoms down below!
Go put them to the sword!”
But the humble lord in father’s name
Came not to march on cities walled
He came to work at carpentry
And he hewed the crooked boughs
His nets he mended then he cast
And over the gunwales hauled
And the lines he baited and took in
Cut deep the hands of god
V
That god should tire, that he could fail
May seem an awful blasphemy
But I know gods a working man
I strive to sow and reap as he
VI
The plow is mightier than the sword
The wheel spins faster and ever faster still
Rise with the sun
Work yourself to death
Reach out and touch his hand
This is the final poem in the series “The Four of Cups”