I have bathed my two hands in what He has forbidden, the same liquid life which now stains my priests’ linen.
My white collar dyed red but in drying, grown brown. My black cassock moist at the hem where it trails the ground. I come as a thief and make nary a sound. I move in the righteous fog to bring judgement down. The crucifix sharpened; a steel edge to deliver. My honor to carry out the work of the forgiver. What justice must be met, post-haste and with love, I carry with my hands lead by an edict from above. To sacrifice the uncaring, unremorseful, black beasts whose evils have brought pain to our Lord’s clean sheep. My heart must be certain and my mercy quite true when I take up the Lord’s Blade to cleave sinners through.
Holy silence fills church halls as I join Our flock in praise. They can sense my devotion to the dear god who saves. Quite aware of my service which I carry out well. And always first I offer the reprieve from hell. “Vile wayward one,” I speak in a voice warm with love, “take our saviour now to you, for to him you come. Accept that you’ve broken his most holy laws. Beg him to forgive you for the suffering you’ve caused.” At the speaking I deliver the door to the judge. As their life spills upon me I do not bear a grudge. It is not I who does this, simply it is my hand. This is not my decision for I am only a man.
Only a lamb with the Blade of the Lord. Second guessing a luxury which I can ill-afford. So, like a jailer, I bring the accused to the court. I deliver their souls for the High One to sort.
I have bathed my two hands in what He has then given and taken away what He deigns to have taken. Those ravaged by cruelty are never forsaken. I am Lamb, my Lord’s servant, the Church’s killer born. Heavy are my responsibilities and the heart they weigh on. Bend my two bruise-like lips in a humble mans’ kiss to the badge of my office, a sharp crucifix.