hollow men, stuffed men

We sit in worship,
hollow men,
stuffed men.
Shape without form,
Gesture without motion,
our substance stolen silently
long ago.

Without meaning
knowing not
why we come or where we go or what we do
our rote repetition rambles on –
quiet and meaningless –
soothing fingers on temples
therapy to addicts of form and structure.

Why is our force paralyzed?
Where has our strength gone?

Burn empty straw!
Raise voices no longer dry!
Whisper together no longer!

Return to the old paths –
not empty paths of institutionalism,
but the rocky paths of Galilee,
in the footsteps of the Savior.

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