God sings thru a hollow pipe.
He sings, & on spiked heels, I lurch
along the crosswalk's double stripe.
On this rock I build my church.

I have no miracles to confess.
No altar linen to besmirch.
No sacristy where I undress.
On this rock I build my church.

A martyred saint is but a whore
who searches, hopeless, as I search
for keys to open heaven's door.
On this rock I build my church.

by Mike Alexander