im tired too. of the vanilla flavor that permeates the knowledge of the holy. the washed down version of christ we portray on the stained glass windows of our soul. please. no more pink frilled sunday school classes full of beautiful pictures and g rated stories.
i want the sweat, the blood, the tears and grimy dirt in the corner of my eyes that tell me i'm bleeding and broken, splinters of the cross under my nails, sleeping in the garden of my gethsamane. tell me of the acrid sweat tinged air that surrounds a betraying kiss.
i wonder sometimes, when it was decided that the god of the little children could not handle growing up.