God is not here, Hannah said to herself; and made a small cross upon her breastbone, against her blasphemy.

Now he haunts me seldom: some fierce umbilical is broken,
I live with my own fragile hopes and sudden rising despair.
Now I do not weep for my sins; I have learned to love them
And to know that they are the wounds that make love real.
His face illudes me; his voice, with its pity, does not ring in my ear.
His maxims memorized in boyhood do not make fruitless and pointless my experience.
I walk alone, but not so terrified as when he held my hand.
I do not splash in the blood of his son
nor hear the crunch of nails or thorns piercing protesting flesh.
I am a boy again--I whose boyhood was turned to manhood in a brutal myth.
Now wine is only wine with drops that do not taste of blood.
The bread I eat has too much pride for transubstantiation,
I, too--and together the bread and I embrace,
Each grateful to be what we are, each loving from our own reality.

God doesn't believe in the easy way.

'Common Sense- God's Worst Enemy

If God appears to me when I die I shall say: 'You've proved your existence, but not your worth'

You're supposed to be made in His image, and yet you're all such ungrateful pieces of filth. You only bow your heads when you want something.