Oh Billy!

 

Oh Billy,

Where were you on that Calvary road?

 

            Working to weld those bits of iron, earn my shilling,

            trying to swim in that drunken fog.

            Did you pass me by, Lord?

I called out to many on that hell bent road;

Twelve came running for the word.

To many I spoke, to a few who listened,

I gave a gift, as much as I could.

 

            What of those who cried out your name,

            the ones struck by those of shame?

I tried to change the darkened hearts,

lost in despair, on that dangerous path.

Some forgot, some did not listen,

My love is unconditionally given.

 

            What love runs away from the child,

            Beats and bruises body and spirit?

            Who justifies the pain so given?

I saw from the Twelve, and those around,

the task would not be as easy,

to bring them from the path that they found.

To a few, who found voice, and to some, to loudly sound,

I gave to make mark on those so bound.

 

            Many days were dark, the road so long,

            Every question asked, unanswered, as fleeting as a fart!

Many hide behind a badge, they flash their colours,

disguise their broken hearts.

We all run foul of some who choose their own part.

 

            Was it a test, Lord?

            Why lift us up, and then down, we’re so quickly cast?

The Word finds a way to reach within;

Springs forth, a bubbling brook, even Glaswegian;

Every challenge I faced, every question asked,

The answer given, to those who would listen.

 

            Was the journey meant to be hard,

            the body wracked and the spirit broken?

It took some time to pass the Word,

to show lost souls, they are heard,

there can be an easier road,

that life can be enjoyed.

 

            Three score and ten, seems a heavy load,

            carrying the crap of so many lost souls.

            Why couldn’t it be simpler to understand?

Every day given, every thought shared,

pierced the gloom, sought to lighten the mood,

bring the beauty of the light to those on the road.

 

            Who will tell, when will the time come?

            Of release from religion that binds the soul, restricts the body,

            that cripples the spirit?

Judas did not get it; Thomas had doubts!

How many others, some said to be devout,

waited until I could only set free,

those in the dark, by being nailed to a tree.

I cried out in vanity, ‘Eloi, Eloi, Lama Sabachthani!’

God spoke to me! I laughed as I cried;

‘Perhaps, on your return, you shall be Billy Connolly!’

 

Will George

© Jan 1st, 2013

Will George Poet

will-george-poet.co.uk