We sell our souls for privilege and power;
the church is no less guilty. An hour,
an age, God curse it. God have mercy,
we're worse than we believe. The curse we
bear we carry in our bones. We can't
unknit it from our breath, it's printed
in the wrinkles of our brains. Stains
like commandments, God-engraved.
Our bread is poison--we consented
to eat, we called it sweet. How pure
the saints shine forth, unstained--
how full of shit. We eat the shit
the world sells, call it sanctified.
Was it for this our Lord was crucified?
When will the earth, revolted, spit
us out? We've sold the cure
for our disease for "peace," for princes,
for appointments. There's no salve
to stop this rot, this bleed. We need
amputation. Christ, will this branch
that bore me burn?
When will you, awful God, return
to judge your church?
God curse it, God have mercy,
who will pay for this unfaithfulness,
when your bride's idols splinter?
Will you, in mercy, burn them
in our bones? Burn in the midst of us?
When will we tear out our eyes
that make us sin, that cannot see
past lies that were our parents'
inheritance? or are these lies
as old as Eve? When do we grieve?
Oh my mother, my brothers,
when will you grieve?
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