A Usual Sunday in the Land of the Plenty Churches

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
Upon arriving in America one of the first things that struck me was simply that driving along one single road I was able to spot five churches. All of the these seemed to pray to the same God, but sometimes having to be "righter" than the other one, in my eyes, may just be missing the point of what belief was meant to be. I'm not saying I'm overly religious, or that I condemn anyone who is, I'm just saying sometimes (note: sometimes!) we have to take the time to think about what is more important.
Having an idea for a life at peace and living that way, or forcing yourself to be right and forcing others to be as right as you think you are.

Submitted: September 18, 2008

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Submitted: September 18, 2008



A Usual Sunday in the Land of the plenty Churches


Far is never far, when one has not been there before,

Set foot in a foreign Land and gaze up at the cross atop, and there you might see

The symbol they all share,

The symbol of what they loath,

The symbol, well, they all forgot long ago.


Around, around he goes in the land of the plenty churches.

Many believers, they be everywhere, but none too sure at all.

Altars be built, be raised from the ground,

I thought I knew, I thought I understood,

they hail what they need, they praise what they seek.


One morning again I thought I knew what they meant.  

They pray so not to be alone.

Then again you may say to talk to one not there is to be alone.

But maybe it might just be therefore that they in the end,

are the only ones not alone and the rest stand by and gaze.

When all that matters, simply matters no more,

be it illusion, be it truth, what brings peace to the mind,

should be allowed, whether it is by the truth or the illusion.


Then there are the ones that linger round the altar.

They grip the cross ever so tight and ever so rightly in their minds.

They will proclaim to have found the truth within.

Name based truth is what they see.

They see the Name, they think they see faith,

and proclaim theirs to be right without dismay.


Pray to the Lord, oh, pray to the Lord they did.

Plenty of church stones stacked atop one another,

all built thinking the answer was somewhere among those very stones.

Great Riddling, the gamble of a lifetime,

offered up the stakes just to see them vanish the game.

Well maybe, just maybe, the answer lies not in the stones of the house,

But in the small things, that those brought that seek.


Just as once was said, all things must pass,

so must these stones that are just packed.

Many prayers, many churches, many hearts all crying out,

and all to the same God and in his name they will fight,

but shouldn’t they know that their God is the thing they share.

But no they are too busy, being right in what is wrong,

“Righter” than the one before.


So forget what they say, and look what they do.

Then you might see that the one who knows, no he doesn’t go.

The one who truly knows, and seeks to understand,

he’ll stay at home, on the usual Sunday.


Alas, Sunday you’re mine to keep.

Alas, Sunday stay here just for me.

© Copyright 2020 Ck Deane. All rights reserved.

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