by Mercer Simpson
Dear God
I hope I’ve got
your correct address:
with so much mail
going astray these days
I wouldn’t want this letter
to get lost in the post.
I hope you don’t mind me
leaving the writing of it rather late
but I felt I had to write to thank you
for letting me stay in your house
for so long. I know
I haven’t been the easiest of guests,
stealing your son’s bread
and helping myself to his wine.
Please forgive your wayward visitor
straying into the intellectual thickets
of unbelief, of spurious questionings,
trespasser from faith’s footpaths
exploring country lanes I thought
were beckoning me to Eden
which I should have known to be
forbidden territory.
Now that my time is nearly over
I insist on having the last word
which must be gratitude:
gratitude for the miracle of your world
that I, who might have died at birth,
was spared to live in;
for which I offer you my thanks
which can never be enough
for the gift of life.
So please forgive me if I seem
impertinent in asking if I may
come back and visit you again sometime?