If misery loves company (and isn’t that why you clung to me?) let’s all come together and we’ll a call it a church. Put a few people on pedestals and they can tell us why we hurt. And I will hold these people with such high esteem (o my god, if you fail, you fail the whole machine). Aren’t we all just wolves in sheep’s clothing? Shepherd, tend to your flock, but look out for the beast 'cause she’s a mean one, you see. She’s beautiful, she’s ugly, her lips taste like honey and she’s been eyeing you the way that she’s eyeing me.
But my costume is so clean! I finally tucked my claws inside these little feet and I’m standing so righteous and haughty! But I lost interest in your bride (that body) when I stopped recognizing the groom in the congregation. Ephesus! Where is that love? What it’s this uninviting, apprehensive sensation? And when did our relationship become exclusive? There is nothing new underneath that sun but I will not succumb to be recruited for the only army that shoots the wounded (I would rather be the wounded) - I AM THE WOUNDED! - SANCTUARY!
O, the church is a whore, but she’s still my mother (and I try to love her). God knows I love her! I am her.
Better to lose an arm or a leg (yeah)! Cast out anything that’s gonna cause you to fail again. If I wasn’t such a sucker for pain, I would’ve gouged out my eyes nine years ago, today. And no need to worry about me pointing out your flaws, I don’t have a speck in my eye, I’ve got a splintered log and I am not strong enough to cut it off (but I’m not trusting enough to hand someone else the saw). So it’s the blind disagreeing with the blind, about sight, and it’s the mute screaming at the deaf (with all his might) about wrong and right. “I’ve got a novel full of excuses about why I left the bride, and they’re all justified!” In broken penmanship and crooked lines: “I AM ENTIRELY BITTER INSIDE” and I need somebody wiser to differentiate between truths and lies. Pray my calloused heart beats steady. I’m pretty good at forgiving, but I’d like to start forgetting and I’m tired of the rats eating my harp strings. I miss the sound of her voice when she’d sing: “I’m coming back to the heart of worship, and it’s all about You. It’s all about You, Jesus. I’m sorry, Lord, for the things I’ve made it. It’s all about You. It’s all about You, Jesus.”
The church may be a whore but she has a lot to teach me, and if love keeps no record of wrongs then I want to love completely. We all are whores, we are all lovers, and I am gonna love her. I am her.
