Sharpened Fingers

About the Human Race

Sharpened fingers,

Always poking in my face,

Is what I remember the most,

About the human race.

If your words, had been oxygen,

We would all have choked, on your hate,

So, forgive me please, now and then,

If I chose, not to participate.

Only a creator, sitting high in judgment,

Could possibly spare.

Your thin neck, in a heavy rope,

With all your insides, laid bare.

Only you, it seems, will pay that final price,

Before you will ever, get on your knees,

And say a prayer to Christ.