I heard you from afar,
Your tone was angry as Mars,
Rageful with knowledge to impart,
Your voice went shrill, impassioned in your heart.

So I have some questions for you,
I do not mean to test you for fruit,
But I’m honestly inquiring after truth,
Think it might help us both, do you?

Was Jesus crucified once, or is He always dying?
Was freedom justified for us or are we always crying?
You see this, you constantly pronounce, but why all the violence?
Is flaying the broken and mopping up their blood really triumph?

I’m not done yet,
Barely getting started, GET
OUTTA MY WAY, this is not a test,
Jezebel is gonna fall, God is not impressed.

Round two…
Who knows what righteousness is?
Is it Jesus or is it by flogging yourself senseless
That we think we can break this? It’s endless…
That’s why HE did it; we couldn’t understand this.

These are just my questions for you.
Answer them or turn and tear me in two,
But you already know who tramples in goo,
These were my pearls, but now they’re for you.

I don’t mean to berate,
Irritate, get in on your hate,
You gather and you masturbate,
Like the church can’t find a mate,
What’s the point of hidiing in the basement?
He can see right through your self-abasement.
Does sin come from the heart or your perfect pavement?
Yeah, tar’s holding down the weeds but this is a graveyard under cement.

Is it really living to constantly kill the broken?
Are we healing with this, or do we always feel like smoking?
What’s in your pipe is exactly what your soul likes,
Does worship still face God when it’s open season coping?

This is not a free-for-all,
You can have your battle royale,
But why do you pick at the boils
When we were MADE TO BE ROYAL?

Job had a circle of advice,
Friends who couldn’t abstain from their own vice,
They scraped and wounded him in their avarice,
Do you think their God did not distribute justice?

I implore you, pray this’ll work,
We’re not an earthworm, life is not a circle jerk,
God’s not an earworm, He’s righteousness at work,
Are we really so self-sure? On our own we can’t have church.

Slittin’ wrists in our bleeding fits,
Like the blood-red flecks cover over our worship,
But it was ALREADY PAID, what are we doing with this?
Debt’s already cancelled and we’re lancing like we never bore witness.


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