No Killing Whores On Sunday

With your King James Bible
And crucifix necklace,
You take perverse pleasure
In berating sinners,
Their ungodliness and tattered lives
Of dirty desires,
Relegate them to certain hell,
Brimstone beds and fiery blankets.

I, too, dig Jesus,
The Sermon on the Mount,
The breaking of bread,
The water into wine,
But I mostly appreciate
Jesus writing in the sand
While men stood around
Waiting to kill a whore,
How he refused to give his hand
To her condemnation,
That beautiful act of compassion,
The sacred acceptance of humanity.

poem by Uriah Hamilton
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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