The Bride If misery loves company (and isn’t that why you clung to me?) let’s all come together and we’ll a call it a church put a few people on a pedestal and they can tell us why we hurt and I will hold these people with such high esteem that (o my god, if you fail, you fail the whole machine) aren’t we all just wolves in sheep’s clothing? shepherd, tend to your flock, but look out for the beast she’s a mean one, you see she’s beautiful, she’s ugly, her lips taste like honey and she’s been eyeing you the way that she’s been eyeing me
but my costume is so clean! I finally tucked my claws inside of my little feet and I’m standing so proud and haughty!
But I lost interest in your bride (that body) when I stopped recognizing the groom in the congregation
Ephesus! Where is that love? What it’s this uninviting, apprehensive sensation? And when did our relationship become exclusive?
There is nothing new underneath that sun but I will not succumb to be recruited for the only army that shoots the wounded (I would rather be the wounded) I AM THE WOUNDED!
O, the church is a whore, but she’s still my mother (and I try to love her) God knows I love her! I am her.
Better to lose an arm or a leg (yeah!) to cast out anything that’s gonna cause you to fail again if I wasn’t such a sucker for pain, I would’ve gouged out my eyes nine years ago, today and no need to worry about me pointing out your flaws I don’t got a speck in my eye, I’ve got a frickin’ log and I am not strong enough to cut it off (but I’m not trusting enough to hand someone else the saw)
So it’s the blind disagreeing with the blind, about sight and it’s the mute screaming at the deaf (with all his might) about wrong and right “I’ve got a novel full of excuses about why I left the bride, and they’re all justified!”
through broken penmanship and crooked lines “I AM ENTIRELY BITTER INSIDE” and I need somebody wiser to differentiate between truths and lies and pray my calloused heart beats steady, I’m pretty good at forgiving, but I’d like to start forgetting and I’m tired of the rats eating my harp string I miss the unity in the sound of her voice when she’d sing:
“I’m coming back to the heart of worship, and it’s all about You. It’s all about You, Jesus. I’m sorry, Lord, for the things that I make it and It’s all about You. It’s all about You, Jesus.”
And she may be that harlot but she has a lot to teach me, and if love keeps no record of wrongs then I want to love completely
And she may be that harlot, but she is still my mother,
and my father loves his bride like he loves no other.