How Deep the Devil Digs

Impressive as it is, your Afterlife
Is unbelievable, an empty place
Of harps and peering in the good Lord's face,
A stupid thought, among too many, rife
With platitudes about an end to strife
And angels wailing. That's amazing grace?
Not really — it's a strange, alarming space
Between forlorn hopes and this sharpened knife.

You don't scare me with demons, bogeymen,
And recipes for puddings without figs,
Decisions as regards the use of pigs
In pies (a blackbird's better than a wren
And no, the sword is mightier than the pen),
Or threats about how deep the Devil digs.