The still, small voice no longer can be heard.
The sacred, silent space unoccupied
No burning bush nor tempest speak The Word.

We centre our whole self on the absurd
For iPads cannot pass through any eye
The still, small voice no longer can be heard.

God no longer feels inclined to share.
The golden cloud of angels cannot fly
No burning bush nor tempest speak The Word.

The altar’s stripped, the rituals turned nightmare.
The ancient priest says Mass and wonders why
The still, small voice no longer can be heard.

A virtual wall stops grace from being shared.
Jesus is made flesh and silent dies
No burning bush nor tempest speak The Word.

No one is an island, John Donne cried
But now there is no truth to satisfy
The still , small voice no longer can be heard.
No burning bush nor tempest speak The Word.