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A wiser man said,
not so long ago,
that there is a God.
A God of pain.
Of impalement,
crucifixion,
burning,
branding,
beating,
brutality.
Of flesh,
torn by the tips
of the finest leather whips.
God of denial,
whose mindless revisions,
manipulate the past,
with maniac intuition.
So tell of this path
to my salvation.
Lined with pillaged alms,
broken glass, bleached bones.
Backs of nubile sinners
waiting, pleading
to be saved and slain.
Lonely lord of constant rejection,
of relapse or escape,
real love or lusty desires.
Surprising to think
that this may be.
Pious policeman,
fascist father,
cruel old king:
Relishing sadistic might.
Could it be by His own hand,
right is wrong
and wrong is right!
A Christ on His throne,
all bleeding and dying.
Mary at his feet
all bloody and crying
And they call us morbid!
We don't fear this fate
Don't recoil from what's unknown
but seek its dark embrace!
They call me Heathen,
I don't fear this fate.
Send for your high priest,
I'll spit in his face!

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