Jerusalem

the city that kills the prophets

White city, white walls,

like the shell of an egg,

strength in fragility.

Inside once gold,

now rotting, something dead.

Something dead or something dying.

And you can feel your heart melting

like wax

in your breast,

still pounding out the eternal rhythm

of sin,

guilt,

and the missing beat of redemption.

You are on your knees at the foot of the cross

(which is gold)

on your knees, soaking the ground in tears,

screaming away your voice,

with the weight of the sins of the whole world

bearing down on your fragile, bowed shoulders.

You are on your knees

before the cross,

willing your own hands to bleed, waiting

with bowed head for the crown of thorns.

on your knees

before the cross,

and the sharp gold edges feel lodged in your heart;

they've been stabbing the cross in your heart for centuries.

Jerusalem,

white city of the white walls,

like the shell of an egg.

pouring out your guilt as blood

from the wounds that violent gold cross has dealt you.

died on the cross for our redemption

for the sins of the whole world

He said, father, forgive them,

for they know not what they do.

but you know, now.

Is that cross killing you,

always before your sight?

You are on your knees at the foot of the cross,

screaming;

we are all kneeling before the cross

where He died,

screaming - crucify me -

still missing that third beat.

this iswell, crisis of faith might be the right category, i guess. you don't have to agree. i don't even know if i agree, but it's where i am right now. (yes, i'm a christian). justread, review?