Amazing Grace

placed in crimson cushioned pews

I sit next to my father;

yet I see no God in him,

no amount of communion 

can close this chasm.

attending sunday service to 

jettison saturday vices,

pews washed in the blood,

that saved a wretch like him,

a cacophony of hypocrisy,

because filth seems holy

when wrapped in 

sunday’s best.

sermons seemed to sanitize his hand marks from my face,

every Hallelujah unmarking a 

finger,

every prayer validating rage-filled 

haymakers,

how sweet the sound;

caused 

red 

to engulf my 

cheek; 

as to say:

blessed are those who honor thy father—

while being washed in the blood,

baptized by adult hands

wrapped in ire and 

resentment.

the children made in 

His image; created by man 

born holy 

corrupted by man,

promising grace while 

exhorting bloodshed.

maybe my father does look like God.