Forced into a house that wasn’t mine,
Whose stained windows enclosed
A lingering stench of incense or sin.
The pews lined in deliberate rows
Were filled with a vulnerable crowd,
Led by a man of counterfeit cloth.
But in his shadow was a king suspended–
Not on a throne, but on a leftover tree.
Hammered to the cross by men,
Conned to the cross by his Father.
His body punctuated still blood–
Surely he was dead, but I saw him move.
It looked like he was laughing–
His Father conned us, too.