(With thanks to Charles Bradlaugh)
Defining god is so much fun -
It puts religion on the run!
Old Bradlaugh, he was pretty good -
He chopped down trees to show the rotten wood!
If god is infinite, he said,
Then nothing is that is not god -
So you, me, Satan, and that garden shed
Are all divine! How very odd!
They say that he's omniscient.
And knows each thing that comes to pass -
That all takes place with his consent:
He must be, frankly, quite an arse!
Because you see he doesn't just
Know everything and see it all -
Oh no, he's that which gives the thrust,
The shove that makes the sparrow fall.
Omnipotent, you see - he's quite
All-powerful, is mighty god:
He rules all worlds from his great height
And blasts out lightning from his mighty rod....
If he's all-powerful, as they say,
Then only he can move and act -
Us puppet-people made of clay
Are just his slaves: an awkward fact!
We can't be held accountable
For anything we say or do.
This problem's insurmountable -
Accept the premise and it's true!
But on the other hand, of course,
They say he's quite unchangeable -
He stays the same, this constant source -
Eternal, unarrangeable!
But then he's infinite, is god -
I'd quite forgotton; how perverse!
We're not just puppets made of sod -
We're him himself: oh this gets worse!
They say he moves but stays the same,
Now this sounds really quite confused!
It's more than just a verbal game -
It's truth itself that is abused.
If words have meaning, sense and truth,
If logic works by means of rules
Then I have reasoned this reproof:
Theology's the work of fools!
I could go on at endless length
About each contradiction dire -
But really I must save my strength
To stoke my intellectual fire!
Like William Blake my mental fight
Is with oppression, guilt and shame,
With priests of venom, hate and spite
Who torture man in god's vile name!
Of god himself I have no care
He's just a phantom made of thought -
Less than a kiss of summer air...
The quivering mirage of a Nought!
by Norman Pridmore