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Mad At A Myth
Copyright 2009 Phillip E. Long
I think some of you are mad at Jesus but,
If you ask me, it doesn't add up.
I mean, I'm not that good at math and
I don't understand the Holy Trinity,
But I took trigonometry three times
Before I could admit there was anything
I would never figure out completely like—
How could you be so mad—at a myth?
No one holds grudges against Santa and the Tooth fairy
Or mythical beings like Thor and Zeus.
When it comes to personal insult and injury,
Fictional hallucinations are never abused.
But there's something about Jesus to force a decision.
And there's something about Jesus to make you livid.
You might blame religion or someone you know but
2000 years is enough time to consider His quid pro quo—so
Somewhere between the babbling baby in the manger
And the bloody Lamb on the cross, He must have made you crazy.
Somewhere between turning water into wine and a last glass with friends,
There must have been a moment when things weren’t so hazy.
It could have been that finger in the dust, calling the bluff
Of hypocrites ready to toss rocks at some party girl
Like frat boys caught in a date rape trying to get rid of the evidence—but,
What could bother you about that?
Or maybe it was His spit in the dust, stirred into mud,
Rubbed into eyes of a man too blind to see, who wanted to see,
And then did see, what you can't see, don’t see, won't see, but somehow you still see—
Red—every time someone says "He rose from the dead."
This Jewish carpenter by day—King of the Universe by night—
Born to vanquish evil and bring eternal life—
Astride a white horse with robes dripping blood—
Risen from the dead to save the world—
I think you're upset he's taking too long—'cause,
Everyone knows the world needs to be saved.
After eons of evolution and centuries of social science,
We sure as—well—aren't doing a very good job of saving it ourselves.
Things we make for good—Are still used for bad.
Wealth we all create—Is hoarded by a few.
Rich people watch starving people on high definition television and
Educated people sneer at ignorant people who still have questions.
We can't stand the need and the greed and
The evil men do to people they don't understand,
Or the pain and the strain and the
Hurt inflicted on sons and daughters we do understand.
We should be tired of waiting to be free but,
Does that make Him responsible for the damage? And,
Why aren’t we more like we want to be, and
Who ever decided we deserved to be saved?
Myths aren't hated when they don't come through for us.
No one hates Batman, at least, not on purpose.
Superman doesn't get his name crafted into curses and
Flash Gordon never gets paid to desert us.
Wonder Woman wasn't nailed, naked, to a cross
To hang until dead, rejected and mocked, just so
We could worship the Joker and Lex Luther,
In a ritual killing, full moon, blood-stupor—
Only real gods (or devils) have that kind of clout.
But you're still mad at Jesus, and the math won't work out.
The wishing well's empty—except for your doubt
'Cause, to eight billion gods, Three-In-One doesn't count
So don't waste your anger on this holy hero—
This God/man chimera whose life was a message
To anyone willing to see that He's still
Pulling dying souls out of this wreckage.
You know that He's real, and this nightmare keeps taking you
Places you need to be saved from and making you
Want to blame someone for sin who will take it
And give you back life—since you're dying to Wake—Up!
http://www.3minutecreed.com/
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