Wounded Steeples

Shallow applause drifts in on fleeting whims
distracted by the lure of broken hymns,
scarlet shadow stains my mission heart
self and worship – not that far apart.

Ministry designed by desires of my own
created for comfort; afraid of the unknown,
surrendering our scraps in living shame
while grasping onto mercy in God's name.

Prayers offered – pretty verses sounding nice
while people's suffering demands a price,
melody of nursery rhymes drowning out
the silent pain of their desperate shout.

Charity disguised behind our sacred steeple
protecting religion – while forgetting people,
bleeding hope left in the ruins of our boast
as we sit down to enjoy our Sunday roast.

Love's true scent not discovered in perfume
more embraced when homeless stench fills the room,
kindness shown despite what in may cost
our selfish pride in Jesus blood – washed.

Precious grace displayed through dying to our self
not leaving compassion rotting on the shelf,
dwelling in the nurture of God's delight
seeking after justice with heart's contrite.