I feel you cradle me, and I watch,
as you set aside warmed milk,
onto the bruised counter. 
I tried yelling out to God,
but you thought it best
to hush me
with a molded pacifier.
I spat on you, in resistance
as my mouth is left
with the taste of
iniquity;
my face, crimson and 
boiling,
and yet, you decide
to sing your hymns.
I responded in Tongues,
in hopes of your praise.
But, you only took
my words as babble.
You take me to the den,
to lay my body;
though I hung,
and spread my arms,
as did He
while persecuted.
Once placed,
you swaddle me
with the wool 
of Abraham's sacrifice.
I then decide
to sit myself
up,
my back pressed against 
chipped, wooden bars.
My eyes averted
to the heavens
and with vengeance
I spurt out:
Do we, only we,
praise the creator?
Or does the creator
praise us?