Faith’s not hard
when your ten quid’s riding the odds-on favourite
and not some sixteen-to-one outsider,
unknown, unseen – a name with no form.
But when faith’s to be pinned to some one-in-dozens messiah –
a vagrant who performed magic in exchange for a bed
a healer who had little time for the sick who wouldn’t heal themselves
a man who didn’t acknowledge his mother
and wasn’t acknowledged by his friends,
at the end.
And if he was just an OK sort of chap
who stood up to the bullies
who touched the untouchables
who spoke with children and gave them a voice
whose first big event was to turn water into wine
so the party could go on late into the night
a man so singular,
that no-one thought his life significant for 50–70–100 years
after that humiliation,
after that murder, ignominious and mean
swept under the carpet before that Sabbath.
Then that’s a tough faith,
a leap in the dark faith
a faith without form.