Strewn and shattered across the floor
Lies the broken aftermath
The desecrated image of a Savior
Beauty can be a dangerous path
If we forget who beauty is for
Nothing more than a stained-glass epitaph
A white-washed tomb with a rotten core
The divine should lift our gaze
But our eyes linger in the mirror
We raise our hands in praise
Make the object of our worship clear
“Look what I have made,” we say
As if fraud is to be cheered
As if beauty is ours to display
We unalign perfect symmetry
Claiming the line we draw is straight
We brag of infantile artistry
In the art that we create
We mess with natural chemistry
Saying the recipe’s out of date
And we ignore the lessons taught in history
Oh, when will we recognize
We’re playing God in a play we write
Wearing colorful costumes to disguise
That there’s no strength in our own might
See, all we’ve done is polarize
Ourselves from a greater light
But we refuse to change and continue to plagiarize
Tall buildings with pointy spires
Still will never touch the skies
Filled pews and harmonious choirs
Can’t hide that we’re telling lies
We’re living in our lusts and desires
While saying opposite of what our lives imply
We’re burning
truth with unholy fire
Seeing how put together the priest is
We show up with good appearances
We’ve ironed out the creases
But inside we shake and fear instances
Where we might slip on the broken pieces
And reveal our drear resistances
For we’ve forgotten what true peace is
Life lacking the divine bears a vacancy
So the stained-glass window’s purpose
Lies not in its own beauty
But in a greater one to confess
And we laden with a similar duty
Are but a thin glow, to be not more but less
To reflect a light that few can see
