Christ, by heaven highest adored,
Oft immaculately portrayed, even in
death.
His image, beyond the Church’s
reproach.
His figure, sculpted in gold, adorns the
altar’s mantle.
I, myself, am not easily
swayed
In matters of the
heart,
I dig my heels, for
better or worse
And rarely choose
to part.
With stubborn
faith, embedded
ideals.
His hands clenched,
grasping fruitlessly.
His face, gaunt and glassy eyed.
With ease they cast aspersions on
Thomas, faulting his forsaken
faith.
I have found myself at a crossroads
Quite often as of late,
Two split paths, one shrouded in a haze
The other one dead straight,
The latter’s ease conceals untold
dread.
Extremities caked in soot.
His mouth agape, lips cracked.
His figure forever, inextricably,
marred.
Poor, poor lamb.
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