The High Priest

February 6, 2012
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My voice hardly crested the pulpit
It withered and died at my feet
They sing and cry to me daily
But I am not the god they seek

I see them kissing crosses
And falling on their knees
But I know I am not their leader
Too long hidden in sinistry

“Save my son, my daughter,
Ten shillings if they no longer writhe”
I hush a word or two, and gracefully take my pay
But I know they will not soon be alive

I know I am a liar
I promise eternity as if ordained
But even I sometimes wonder
If God will deliver me or have me slain

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