After the preaching’s Done-finished Picking at the scabs Of our guilt, At week's end / day of rest; Just when we almost had it Bygone / Forgotten From our minds It's a kinder kin to amnesia A softer fog of fugue, A healing art of our brain farts, Not soaking in shame's Diminishment, Or stewing in self-helps. "Deliver us!" (bow down genuflect)
But then again Here we are together to gather Uncomplainingly Complacently listening Absorbing every lash Of the metaphorical whip, To be guided back to good Such sermons for the flawed humans that we know We are -- unworthy... But willingly we suffer The word. Oh how to be just like The lamb...
So now, afterwards, when we have been Emotionally & verbally punctured Full of hollow We are holes unworthy Of being Made whole... Or so, we've been told "It is written."
Now then let us meet for homily After King James harangues us His version of fellowship, Let us have verbal ******* with the word. (Begotten?) Perhaps over supping Or during beer & NFL Or some blood Sport Non-emasculating, Reminding us how Weekends roar And Life is Worth more Than the inner wars We are ourselves Fighting.
After the sermon, Let's have true verbal *******... (Without be-getting a shred Of guilt).