A pound in the collection-box,
A name-plate by the aisle;
She always wears a hat,
For He'll appreciate the style.
Pays no attention to the sermon,
Christ in himself has no appeal,
The social custom is the turn-on
And she just wants to feel comfortable.

Treading not on her illusions,
I will not walk upon my own:
We stand among the creature comforts;
We're standing on the stockpiles of first stones.

Yes, we stand on the brink of the Ultrapower,
Assume it's a proper place,
View the living hour by hour
In the first person singular case.
On with the usual, complacent,
Wait for the mortal wound to heal
When the abyss is adjacent...
What right have we got to feel comfortable?

On with the usual complacency,
On with the customary zeal;
She doesn't need to match a valency,
She just wants to feel comfortable.

It's her blindness and her blessing
That the thought will not occur
That heaven, when it comes, might have
No special place for her.
She'll never look at the enigma,
She doesn't want things quite that real.
Oh, that's some kind of stigma -
What right has she got to feel comfortable?
What right has she got to feel comfortable?

She doesn't want to think about it,
She doesn't want to talk about it,
She doesn't want to look at it.
It makes her feel uncomfortable.

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