Gwendolyn Brooks - The Preacher Ruminates Behind the Sermon lyrics

I think it must be lonely to be God. Nobody loves a master. No. Despite The bright hosannas, bright dear-Lords, and bright Determined reverence of Sunday eyes. Picture Jehovah striding through the hall Of his importance, creatures running out From servant-corners to acclaim, to shout Appreciation of His merit's glare. But who walks with Him?–dares to take His arm, To slap Him on the shoulder, tweak His ear, Buy Him a Coca-Cola or a beer, Pooh-pooh His politics, call Him a fool? Perhaps–who knows?–He tires of looking down. Those eyes are never lifted. Never straight. Perhaps sometimes He tires of being great In solitude. Without a hand to hold.