God's Messenger, arms and legs restrained by leather, shouted and chanted his song of Divine Displeasure from his Emergency Department bed.

"God's mad wit' you! "God's mad wit' you! "You made God sad, You made God cry, You broke God's heart. "God's mad wit' you!

There was no reasoning with him (or Him, apparently). No room for error. No possibilitiy that God was merely aggravated, or peeved. In the world where he lived, the Messenger had but one purpose - to warn any and all that we were evil and going to Hell because God was mad. He said it without malice, even sounding a little sad as he pronounced my eternal damnation. He also denied the allegations of his family; that he hadn't taken his medication for the last three days.

"God's mad wit' you! God's mad wit' you! God's mad wit' you! (the bridge) It's not me sayin' it. It's God sayin' it. It's not me sayin' it. It's God sayin' it. You hurt God's feelings. You didn't feed me. (repeat chorus) God's mad wit' you! God's mad wit' you!"

. . .for twenty minutes, until the medication kicked in - like a rap/blues/hymn, the sweat pouring off him like a preacher confronted by a jealous husband, his bottle-bottom glasses tight to his head. "I was preaching to the crack dealers," he said between verses. "I coulda got killed, but God said 'don't worry.'" and finally the Haldol/Ativan cocktail reached the neurons that were so badly misfiring and he began to slow down. "They gonna take me to fourth floor?" (you bet!) He been here before, knew that some of his wires were crossed. And he knew he was safe. But he had to tell me again, just in case I hadn't heard.

"God's mad wit' you . . ."
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