I am surrounded by windows and filters
and brightly colored pictures of Jesus with tiny scars we can all handle-
here, inside a church that values perfection above all else.
They worship the beautiful- the angels and the heroes and the face of purity.
And I wonder, a little sadly, when I see your eyes,
where grace fled.
Because you and I, we are not angels or heroes or faces of purity.
In a place of stained glass and stick figures
you and I are blemishes.
We’ve lost so many battles
that they tell us we’ve lost the war.
We are the broken,
in a church of sleeping beauties and glass slippers.
And someone please tell me,
Is there any hope left for you and I?