Stanglass

To burn a prayer into a newborn's gentle skin is but a scar that the hands of time will carve And to stitch the word of The Lord to a young man's heart Will shed blood in broken thread. A golden cross may belong around your neck But it's my necklace of thorns Twine too tight not to bleed To be subservient to an ancient book Is but the slave of an unproductive world In the eyes of a child who's mind has wings Of a different colour. And perhaps a life that is right for you Is not one a child would grow into.