Jesus, Jesus, there are those that say they love you
But they have treated me so god damn mean
And I know you said forgive them, for they know not what they do
But sometimes, I think they do
You don’t like to be touched,
Let alone kissed
Does his love make your head spin?
Whatever we inherit from the fortunate
We have taken from the defeated
What they had to leave us — a symbol:
A symbol perfected in death.
And all shall be well and
All manner of thing shall be well
By the purification of the motive
In the ground of our beseeching.