The Church Plaintive

We come to you  dear Jesus,
For to whom else can we go,
To bring our puerile complaints
And our childish tales of woe?
We come to you empty handed
To tell what you already know.
The world is cruel and filthy
A fit place for Satan to dwell;
Men build their towers of Babel
And bid to you farewell.
With all it cost You to open heaven
They choose he way to hell.

From Divine Alchemy