"When the Face you Detest is You"

 

It is easy to stare in the face of sinners

with holy anger streaming from your face,

Smirking gleefully at their foulness,

And priding in your self-bequeathed sacredness.

Because your robes are white,

And your titles high

But, hey, what of your heart?

 

You leap on every wrong turn,

Crying the law and its damning consequences,

Hell-bent to uphold a law you never held.

Like whips, your pious smile

Scourge their errant souls.

From your fiery sermons, two faced-sword

Proceeds to slash these damned hearts

Beyond the reach of your high-handed salvation.

 

Every Sunday, you wear your scarlet gown

With a wig hanging loosely on your head,

And a blood dripping gavel in hand,

And then sit infallibly on men' sins

And dispatch them to the hands of cruel Justice

Forgetting you're dust too.

 

Then suddenly, the pendulum of truth

Swings to this other side,

And you are standing before your foil

The breeze of heaven blows on you phoney soul

Leaving you bare and bereft of your holy fig leaves.

And you stand before His mirror,

Loathing the sight you see

A poor sinner like every other soul.