O lord I can't make it beautiful any more
and I cannot call it pain
I feel dead
I feel like I should be mourning Her
the Woman we adore
but she is not dead
does not feel dead

can't make it beautiful god
cannot
if we dress it up I will only strip it naked once again

what is the function of my desire
how am I to formulate my worship
is it only me who sees the full dimension of heaven in the curveture of her breasts
the holy dimensions in her shorter skirt and Egyptian hair

What about her eyes lord? Have you looked into her eyes?
I could never stand naked before her
never enter her presence
every knee shall bow

Your judgement shall be severe but
you needn't go through all this trouble to have my humiliation and
shame
I am on my knees already, lord
the problem is
I am staring straight at her thighs
they lead me up heaven on earth

Her cunt is no Jerusalem
perhaps it is the arena for my glorious death
perhaps I will be thrown to the lions there
perhaps I shall be annointed
or bled upon

Do not make a woman into a god
a woman is not a god
but
her beauty
that is god
and in her eyes there is the holiest dimensions

she gave me faith
not once,
but many times,
in a dark nightclub at four am
on rainy winter nights
she gave me faith in the office
when the prophets were at their lowest
she gave me faith in my dream last week
and she broke it too,
when I woke up

I have lost my way
I don't even know where this started
I just can't dress this up
this is not beautiful
I am suffering

she hurts