Everyday god talks through bards and prophets
and we say we believe, then doubt it.
"Show us a miracle," said they,
to the one called god's son;
whilst they stood amidst the
glories of the stars, the moon, the
noonday sun.

Give us the fantastic, the psychedelic, the dramatic.
Adorn our minds with the plastic of fleeting magic,
but keep us blind, always blind,
to the terror of our attraction
for thee;
give us bondage, make us drunk with illusions,
but never demand
that we be free.

Come to us sometime in the distance future,
from someplace in the galactic
never, never, never in the present-
'cause we'll crucify and disdain ya!

Remain upon the pages of our holy books;
upon our stained glass windows
and in our gothic imaginations,
but stay the hell away from us in every real way
in every successive generation.

And the bards cry and the prophets wail
in mournful tones of sackcloth and ashes
they've cried out to no avail/
while truth is exchanged for the bondage of confusion,
betrayed for filthy lucre, piled up in banks and financial
institutions.

The creator walks in dirty rags
upon our busy streets,
no place to stay, nothing to eat,
blistered and weary feet.

In god we trust!
but if you're broke,
hungry and destitute,
stay the hell away from us!

Got dressed this morning and went to church,
genuflected before the cross of my desires/
and like priests of old
kindled myself one more unholy fire.

Or maybe caught what I thought was the spirit,
and spoke in what I believe to be tongues,
then believed it/
then secretly loved me and clandestinely hated you.

I'm so self righteously blind there's no way I could see.

And the bards cry and the prophets wail-
in tones of sackcloth and ashes
they've cried out to no avail.
Everyday we say we believe
then ourselves deceive,
that god lives in the sky
and is coming back someday
to make everybody feel high.

Whilst god walks amongst us and talks amongst us
and we look for god in every direction but within us!

And the bards cry and the prophets wail
in tones of sackcloth and ashes they've
cried to no avail-
and their voices
yes their voices
float upon the passing wind
upon the passing wind
yes the passing wind
upon the--
passing, passing, passing wind.