Total Depravity
All with eyes to see can see that Santa
serves Satan in sly anagram, and so we sit
in rows on benches in a fetid tent
full of stinks drenched in sweat like our wan souls
feel soaked in sin, faking it. Stabs of light
from pin-prick holes beam thin shafts
of Grace that cone to nothing just feet
above our heads. Our eternity sits
in God’s big hands, but just to see God’s hands
engraves an image. Yes, such thoughts
linger down here with us, hovering
in air thick with dusty wax and turpentine.
Our prayers are words; our hands
make the motions of ecstasy. We came
to know, and now we know we hate it
yet cannot show it. Yes, Christ hates us
and would stamp us unchosen to peanut butter
and red jelly if He so chose to appear,
stalking down these grass-trampled aisles
in a white robe so glaring it smells
like an electrical fire. Pre-doomed to sin,
let us serve our ordained meanness.
serves Satan in sly anagram, and so we sit
in rows on benches in a fetid tent
full of stinks drenched in sweat like our wan souls
feel soaked in sin, faking it. Stabs of light
from pin-prick holes beam thin shafts
of Grace that cone to nothing just feet
above our heads. Our eternity sits
in God’s big hands, but just to see God’s hands
engraves an image. Yes, such thoughts
linger down here with us, hovering
in air thick with dusty wax and turpentine.
Our prayers are words; our hands
make the motions of ecstasy. We came
to know, and now we know we hate it
yet cannot show it. Yes, Christ hates us
and would stamp us unchosen to peanut butter
and red jelly if He so chose to appear,
stalking down these grass-trampled aisles
in a white robe so glaring it smells
like an electrical fire. Pre-doomed to sin,
let us serve our ordained meanness.
