The priest gives his sermon
and it echoes in stride
until it reaches the stained glass.
The body is stale
and the blood is well-aged
as it spills onto the deadwood of the pews
that are no longer coated
in the shimmer of repenting tears.
The fire in the heart of the priest
bursts the deadwood asunder
into flames of exile and scorn;
none are left to tend to the flames.
I am guilty all the same
as I sit atop this pillar of sin
beside the church selfishly looking in.
Oh, do not burn because of me;
rather, open your doors and let me in to
extinguish your flames with my repenting tears
before it is I, fallen, bound unto the inferno.
I will throw myself in the depths of the flames
and find your beating heart wrapped in robes.
As I kneel before the deadwood
and exhale my repentance
I will silence my screams
and listen to the sermon at hand.
I am the wick of this great wooden tabernacle,
so allow me to burn through the calendar year
and I will give up this lent
all of my pride and repent
so the priest can hymn in harmony again.
The body, the blood.