Religion

But what kind of blasphemy,
would it be,
to praise a golden calf,
from Galilee?
Who'd sinned from birth,
to thirty-three,
and then was nailed to a tree,
to show that man could be good.  

And God is still,
looking down,
though He cannot help,
but wear a frown,
at the way we cast,
away His crown,
for our own necessity.

And perhaps,
our greatest flaw,
upon examination,
of them all,
was taking beauty,
and making it law.

For if all you lived,
and all you've seen,
could be encapsulated,
somewhere in between,
the pages of a book,
so tattered and beaten,
that it's lost faith,
in of itself --

And if you think,
that life is really that convenient,
that we live and die,
and God is lenient,
and gives you an eternal field to play,
then you have not lived a single day. 
You have not lived a single day! 

Because there is no explanation for,
the dead babies and the killers and whores,
there is pleasure and pain,
and nothing more. 
And though there's a God,
to lay it out,
how could He ever,
care about,
the eternal space,
of the devout? 

And you may think I laugh,
at every religious epitaph,
and often I wish I could be so cold,
but resentment does not make one bold. 
Instead I cry,
to watch these lives,
who live in fear,
for love,
who've been so removed,
from the golden calf,
they've replaced it with a dove. 

But a golden calf,
can do no wrong,
it only sits there idly. 
So imagine the blasphemy,
to worship God,
through a sinner from Galilee.