Those whispered prayers all through childhood
schooled in vocal pulpits between pew wood
Yet I have voiced my doubts, but retained
my original baptismal Christian name
Have I forgone exoneration? Am I sin?
Yet, my doubts become the din of conviction
Is there a cross when disbelief is faith?
Can salvation be a prejudice at any rate?
I feel that son of Man and not son of God,
though humbly affirmed, is not my Lord
The Church has steeples on murdered blood
If retribution came, there would be a massive flood
And I feel pained that the lie was taken
by my Dad and Mum, ancestors and kin
I once said to my Mum as she was in prayer reposed
that this light’s not ours, on us was imposed
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