Sunday morning, very bright   I read Your book by colored light   That came in through the pretty window picture      I visited some houses   Where they said that You were living   And they talked a lot about You   And they spoke about Your giving      They passed a basket with some envelopes   I just had time to write a note   And all it said was I believe in You      Passing conversations   Where they mentioned Your existence   And the fact that   You had been replaced by Your assistants      The discussion was theology   And when they smiled and turned to me   All that I could say was I believe in You      I visited Your house again   On Christmas or Thanksgiving   And a balded man said You were dead   But the house would go on living      He recited poetry   And as he saw me stand to leave   He shook his head and said I'd never find You      My mother used to dress me up   And while my dad was sleeping   We would walk down to Your house without speaking