She like to keep God out of church,
Especially when she prays:
All in it's place all safely stored
For some rogation day....
The paradox is so apparent,
The sense absurd, but all too real;
The nonsense is arrant
But she just want to feel comfortable.
A pound in the collection-box,
A name-plate by the aisle;
She always wears a heat,
For he'll appreciates the style.
Pays no attention to the sermon,
Christ in himself has no appeal,
The social custom is the turn-on
And she just wants to feel comfortable.
She doesn't want to know/here/see.
Treading not on her illusions,
I will not walk upon my own:
We stand among the creature comforts -
We're standing on the stockpiles of first stokes.
We stand on the brink of the ultrapower,
Assume it's a proper place,
View the living hour by hour
In the first person singular case.
On with the usual complacent wait
For the mortal wound to heal.
When the abyss is adjacent -
What right have we got to feel comfortable?
On with the usual complacency,
On with the customary zeal;
She doesn't need to match a valency,
She just wants to feel comfortable.
It's her blindness and her blessing
That the thought will not occur.
That heaven, when it comes, might have
No special place for her.
She'll never look at the enigma,
She doesn't want things quite that real.
Oh, that's some kind of stigma -
What right has she got to feel so comfortable?
She doesn't want to think about it,
She doesn't want to talk about it,
She doesn't want to look at it:
It makes her feel uncomfortable.