It's so strange that we should meet here
In this ornate little box made
To hold You as our captive dear.
Every Sunday I come to raid
Your mysteries as though I could
Haul away Your insights like gold
Or at least that is what I would
Do if ever I were so bold.

In truth I am a captive here
Only because You are as well.
I don't understand how a mere
Building can have You there and dwell
Within its high yet meager walls.
I don't get how any portion
Of You can fit within these halls.
You must be great at contortion

I am much smaller and yet You
Fit in this Church so much better.
Perhaps if I were to accrue
Your riches then every letter
In Your book would reconcile me
To living in this holy little box.
Why can I not just come and see
You without being so orthodox.