I can make out God’s face in the skeletal constellations I, childlike, adore.
It’s a cold night in May, the moon and Venus are preparing for war.
Tactical shotguns just leave those demons laughing without remorse.
Crosses aren’t pistols, holy water you drank like Coors, so ugly and coarse.
A scared queer girl sets fire to the Legions you put the face of Christ upon.
Tattered hoodie, stained jeans, ragged sneakers, Armor of a Mighty Fawn.
True hearts call angels, the lost and broken repel The Devil, street by street.
That queer girl has a tender hand, heart of light, and knows war is your beat.
The cold morning, 4:45 and the suns coming up, bright as rain, Jesus’ blood shed.
I stand trembling, terrified, of the guns you carry, the demons filling my misfired head.
Jesus’ blood is shed, we can be clean, even as you take our heads for burnt offerings tonight.
We chose purity and love and grace, you cannot take that from us, you are damned in His sight!