In the Beginning

In the beginning
   of Christendom
We had a certain
   familiarity
With God — he'd shaped us
   from mud, his hands
Caked with our being.
   Thus with us curled
Inside himself we'd
   walk in the garden
The evening light gold,
   his voice warm.
Somehow we took on
   a momentum.
And he chose between us —
   but still he came
Like an honored guest
   into our tents,
The grime of his feet
   washed as the goat
Sacrificed, the bread
   risen hot, we
Entertaining him,
   playing number
Games, being indulged
   sweets, with evening
Light, the beer gone flat.
   He stopped coming.
His hands were washed clean
   of us.  Angels
Summoned Son of Adam,
   scared us with visions —
He didn't want
   our names anymore,
Just catalogued.
Then he sent a son
Not to walk with us
But to die for us
Make us feel stupid.
And it makes me sad.
   I'd like to see
The kindly old man
   knock on my door
   and say, `Come.
It's a beautiful
   evening — let's walk
in the garden, hand
in hand, you and I
before the evening
light dips cold.'