I sing the body IKEA, noble in spirit, containing multitudes, worlds within worlds.
Oh, blue natal church of our deliverance, birthing room of our new beginnings. Receive us.
We are poor supplicants, barely worthy to visit sacred Smaland. Receive our tithings and grant us entrance. Your ranks of chaise lounges, your rows of toilet brushes with matching caddy and soap dispensers sing hymns of annointed ease and grace.
Thy Swedish object names sibilant and soothing, speak of nobler realms and simpler times, unsullied, and unhurried. Like the Celts of old, who laid the golden boughs on the sacred forest hearth, we place our rubber trays of utensils on the veneered common life table of our humanity.
We gather our indulgences and file slowly towards your checkout alter, mindful that our grace is fleeting. And though our last minute purchases of compact flourescent bulbs may only nourish our desire for a but a nano-second longer than it takes to scan them and place them in the folds of our robes, grant us that nano-second in peace.
Now penitent, watchful through blinkered eyes for we know not the hour of our arising, with the power of our mute relics quickly ebbing through the tines of our shopping carts, we hurry to our cars, assume the position behind the steering wheel and proceed in reverse through the gates of thy blazing blue Eden.
