Sunday Simmerings

I see so many people in pain
Seeking solace or relief
Wanting to be whole again
Hoping they have enough belief.

Preacher man offers his thoughts
On sin, grace, life, mercy, and such
Sometimes hopeful, sometimes not
Sometimes he's not offering much

So in a room of tortured souls
Where guilt's quiet cancer grows
Fed by judges who are "in the know"
I wonder how far their love goes.

I have a suspicion the answer lies
Not in this room of sinners
But was found in time passed by
When blood made sinners, winners.

So listening to the judging few
As they examine the tortured throng
I wish they would bid us all "adieu"
Since we obviously don't belong.

I consider myself a spiritual man
Yet I can still see my flaws and tatters
But blood flowed and covered the span
Making me someone who matters.