I stood inside my doubt,
questions holding hands
dancing in a circle around me.
Theology beat its tambourine,
I am the true faith,
salvation comes
in the manner I profess.
The word is infallible,
but didn’t man wield the pen?
May I read what fell
on the editor’s floor?
My steps don’t feel right
on the path you say
I must walk.
Am I not free
to choose my own way?
A god of wrath sent love,
a divine oxymoron.
Am I to fear eternal judgment
when I already feel condemned?
questions holding hands
dancing in a circle around me.
Theology beat its tambourine,
I am the true faith,
salvation comes
in the manner I profess.
The word is infallible,
but didn’t man wield the pen?
May I read what fell
on the editor’s floor?
My steps don’t feel right
on the path you say
I must walk.
Am I not free
to choose my own way?
A god of wrath sent love,
a divine oxymoron.
Am I to fear eternal judgment
when I already feel condemned?
Comments
"The word is infallible,
but didn’t man wield the pen?
May I read what fell
on the editor’s floor?"
Oh yes. All I have read states that a meeting of minds (men's) came together to decide what to keep, what to toss. I, too, would like to read what fell on the editor's floor. I do not do "mysteries" well; too many questions, not enough answers. I'm always torn between respecting and admiring those whose faith has no questions, and my own stubborn adamance about following blindly rules that "men" have written. Good old "catholic-raised" guilt, the gift that keeps on giving. Divine oxymoron indeed.