“You, Christian?” they ask almost in a wheeze
Unpleasant, unease
Sets quickly like fog after morning rain
Us still now without a breeze
Love between separated by scars of pain
Bristled at the mention of He
Remembering who they ought to be
Children, them, would look at their now whims
Crying, "Christ, cut off my limbs!"
To be a Christian has its woes
And to be a Christian has more foes!
But, seeing my family, “Dorian,” I say,
“At least I don’t have to put my mirror away”
As I see the Sun rise in the East
I crack open my coke, my airplane feast
And know that at very least
There is no worry of gnashing of teeth
Of some gnarly beast
But, must I admit?
Even as the most pious
I know me, this man could be a nitwit
Surely, all could be erroneous
Or maybe it really is all a bit
In momentary disbelief, I feel weaker
Just then the fog grows thicker
The Moon gets much darker
Do I still know of my Father?
Breaking, fog disperses, touchdown again
We all see light and muse with the wren
Remembering who we are and been
Then, then, then. . .
He'll ask, "You, Christian?”
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