I was born asleep
into the land of sheep,
Where God was King and
E V E R Y T H I N G
was in His Holy keep.
I was told of his forgiveness,
yet reminded I was vicious;
Born with sin, and next of kin
to the wrongs of the malicious.
That I had upon my hands,
the blood of Christ – the man
who died for us two thousand years ago or so…
I know.
It makes no freaking sense.
I wasn’t there back then.
Neither part of,
nor among the crowd of angry men.
The guilt we practised
left no room for building gratitude.
I couldn’t love a God
who bore a grudge against the shrewd
For daring to ask questions
in the face of the unknown.
“I am who I am”, he said –
and who is that?
Don’t know.
God is love,
and love is patient,
love is kind –
it does not envy.
Yet “Thou shall have no gods before me, for I’m a jealous God”?
“Trust not in yourself,” they said.
“Leave it to the Lord.”
I lived half my life
with both my eyes turned heavenward.
Looking for signs,
waiting to shine,
desperate for permission
From an entity who never spoke,
but was told I wasn’t listening.
I couldn’t wrap my mind
around the things that I was taught.
And so I left the praying
to the ones who understood.
