Tractatus logico theologicus

Write this: you can write nothing.
No one can, for what is said
Is not the thing that is
Except in that single case wherein
The eternal Word was made flesh
And dwelt among us.

What is it that the poets are up to then?
Only to take us to Blake’s doors
Beyond which nothing may be seen.
And even Turner’s clouds are not the clouds.
However fretted with golden fire they seem.

It has been said (I say it myself)
Bach’s St Matthew is
The laying in the tomb
Except it’s not, for
That was accomplished once for all –
And you can hear Bach’s commentary
Every Easter.

In all the attempts to speak of reality,
Theologians are the most amusing,
Bowing modestly before transcendence, saying,
“God is outside time and space.”
Thou fool! For “outside” is a word
That belongs in the three dimensions.

“That of which we cannot speak,
We must commit to silence.”
Like Wittgenstein banging his head
Against Blake’s doorposts:
That is the nearest we can get.

So what should I write
In this thick night?
There is an IS and God is
Who he is
Which, after all, is what he said to Moses
And that is it:
Submit.