God and Work

We have a habit of stoning prophets
from time to time here in Jerusalem.
Along the spine, where weight and time deposit.
The heritage of winter’s long union.

So you see our God is a jealous god,
sunk into the language, its heart and bone,
Jesus trapped in short stories of good,
weighed down by the scree of the bless’ed hearthstone.

Our coiled dream. Our redundant destinies.
How strong hands build these nothings of today,
as we bathe in blame of old devilry,
our community became blooded prey.

In the reliquiae of history,
the chapel at its heart stands empty.

Chris Hopkins, was born and raised in Neath South Wales, surrounded by machines and mountains, until he moved to Oxford in his early twenties. He currently resides in Canterbury and works for the NHS. Chris, who claims poetry has been "my ladder out of some dark places" has had poems published in Tuck Magazine, the online literary journal 1947, Transcendent Zero Press and Duane's PoeTree. Two of his early e-book pamphlets "Imagination is my Gun" and "Exit From a Moving Car" are available on Amazon. Read other articles by Chris.