I.
Within a soul there writhes a sprite
of anguish, fear, and indignation.
The man sitting rapt in the pew
on Sunday ought not to be there,
or so he thinks.
The preacher blathers on about
that sin or the next,
nodding heads affirming his every word.
How can one show the turmoil in
their soul? He can’t.
Instead one musters courage to sit
in the presence of God the Awful,
risking disease or stroke to keep up
that which his brother thinks him
to be.
What a foolish man is that.
II.
Previous longings seem like sin
When he looked back on what he knew.
Was he going to let it begin,
The dream in his eyes, the crawling in his skin?
He scratched at the mustache
Growing fast ’round his mouth.
How would he start the tale of the crash
Of his soul towards that pornography stash?
You could never quite tell
But there was something quite wrong
With this young Christian Swell -
The rotting soul was beginning to smell.
It needed to go, that he knew for sure.
But how could he get rid of his comfort?
III.
Will God listen to such a man?
He must, for we are still here.
Righteous wrath and holy hate
Are fully there within the church.
But God stays His own hand.
We are blessed
indeed.
