It is not God I should accuse
but us:

We were not there
when You laid the foundation
when You set the cornerstone.

We are flawed
with our cracked clay feet,
unfit for keeping.

Fallen.

I read Job to understand awe:

We had no voices, yet
or throats,
when the stars sang
and the angels cried out

to learn God answers
questions
with more questions.

Worship is how we kneel
and admit it was not us
that laid the foundations,

that it is angels that shout
not us. Our brass tongues
clang discord
instead of sounding joy.

We have never ordered the morning
or shown the sunrise its place.

That smith of mountains
and mammoths
has more patience for us
than we for Him–

how we lose that path
over and  over
in that hunt for things
we think we need.

We have not traveled
to the springs of the sea.

How we tear each other
to feed a need more heated
than blood, hungrier than empty stomachs.

We have not entered
the storehouses of the snow.

We are not gods
but we coin them, newly minted
from gold flecks
sifted from lead & hoarded
to pour into familiar molds.

Gods that cannot ask us
where we were
because they are made
and ask only
for what we can give easily.

We do not know the paths to lightning.

 I read Job to remember
we can be more

but stretch out our hands instead
to grasp this less.

I wrote this six years ago, in response to another NaPoWriMo prompt.  I am using it again as is, because I doubt I can top this one.