Oh woe were I a painter, impressionist in craft
Painting pictures in emotion, instead of photograph
Because there is no color, no brush-stroke I could sweep
That could capture her, or the wonder that she keeps.

Why go to church and sing our lies? What good is the praise of a song obliged? Obliged to worship, to speak not cry, of the Son of God for whom death died?

And we go to church and sing these songs, but all we are, are sounding gongs. We pretend that we know right from wrong, wearing masks to hide our devil prongs.

And we think just our community gives us immunity, to be spiritual lepers but judge with impunity. We speak of witness but we shun opportunity, and we fail brothers and God in our mission for unity.

See, that's a church that has no Christ: just makeup on the face of vice, a place where we curse in silver tongues and then play nice, acting lions when we should be mice.

Because it’s the glory of God for which Christ died, a glorious God that we denied, yet from our throats were our own hands pried, just so in God we could confide. Just so in Christ we could abide.

There is a haze over him
He could fight it, muster all strength to overcome it
But to what end? There is nothing to see here
Just pastel yellows and men of ill-intent.

Other prisoners crowd around the trough.
Like cattle.
But not him.
He’s special.
They can’t see the poison in the sky.
They don’t know they’re watching.
This is a prison for special people.
People whose eyes are too sharp.
People who know too much.

But they succumbed.
They ate the meat of the temple.
They became domesticated.
They gave up their sight for creature comforts

He is not like them.
He is stronger. He is smarter.
The abattoir will not be silent when it is his turn.
He will not go gently.