Glory departed,
Glory departed.
The words stay glued to my lips
Like a mantra.
It echoes from the darkness,
The unbearable darkness,
That sits on this land
Of stained glass piety;
This wilderness of
Dead god's bones.
We crafted him carefully;
A god of our own image,
A god who consumes
Like American spending,
A god who loves
Anger, lust,
And self-gratification.
With fragile precision
We bred infatuation
For this boxed Jesus
That we created.
With attention to detail
We removed the scars from his hands,
Because we didn't want a Jesus
Who would bloody our manicured
Hands.
But the god of our creation
Had no ears for our groaning,
And we carry our vacuum filled
Empty hearts
With nowhere safe to lay them.
trong...this has been resonating with me too...the creating a god in our own image...you wrote it strong though...props....sadly true
ReplyDeleteI really appreciate what you're saying here and wish I'd hear more of it from the pulpits.
ReplyDeleteawesome message and your wording is strong and powerful. I especially liked - Dead god's bones and We removed the scars from his hands,
ReplyDeleteBecause we didn't want a Jesus
Who would bloody our manicured
Hands.
wow!
Great, challenging poem. You've used repetition very effectively in this one.
ReplyDeleteAnd we carry our vacuum filled
ReplyDeleteEmpty hearts
With nowhere safe to lay them.
beautifully said. nice poem.