The long parade of our betrayal
would likely make a Judas pale.
Good Christ you're vulnerable to this
and we persist, the destination closed.
You're little missed.
Centuries of selling cheap the cross
we scarcely recognize our loss
the fault we proudly find
is not our own.
Blind our unmade eyes
despise the bleeding weakness
that inverts our fondest pose of power
that readies the world for rescue.