Confession

A poem by Santry Rush recited at the FOM on Sunday, September 2
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here in texas its the heat that affects us,

steam's a killing machine and a sunburn makes me restless,

and I'm helpless, but the bulk of it's in something else its,

more than a lack of wealth and how concrete melts that helped me crucify this false self.

it started out real small, like the first rock of the berlin wall,

like the embryonic possibility that I might not be tall,

or a walk in the mall to walk off a fat waist just in case a woman called,

it was tiny, not whiny, almost as if it wasn't even there at all.

It was there though, in the intro, that his words set up house in utero,

it was a birth of worth, that set my mind against the goldmines of planet earth,

rewind. it was also divine. my heart was signed by the pen of a pentecostal time.

and finally.

beautifully.

free. Deciphering in time for me to see,

the scientific, hieroglyphic, mystery of Christianity.

and the letters spelled L-O-V-E.

And it was trip like on a titanic ship that could never sink.

I could never think something was possible like this.

That my savior's memory was like a goldfish when it came to my sin,

he's not rememberin the times and crimes when i let him down,

how i broke his heart without a sound,

he is the salvation, flotation device everytime I drown.

There was no more, “where do I fit in.”

No more hesitation of the classification of my sin.

Because who cares. and who dares throw the word judgment in my face,

In this place of disgrace.

when it's sin that always wins the human race.

Because we are all guilty as charged in the Jesus murder case.

And I am sorry to report that I have fallen short,

in Jesus' eyes whose love is the prize.

The picture of my past is a mosaic of lies,

you could stack up like jenga all the things I've done wrong.

It looks like a holiday wish list but 10 times as long.

And contains as much sorrow as a hit country song.

That goes on and on.

and on.

and yes I confess to that physical mess,

to be worthy of a woman was the step that was next.

to shattering my heart into a million different shards,

and how I forged my trueself autograph

on my true love waits card.

And it was hardest come clean with that physical sin,

And how the american church called me a second class christian.

I'd like to explain my anger and show 'em,

But there is not enough kleenex, and that's a different poem.

But when it comes down to it, the part that's the truest,

is we all stand here broken,

all the cracks are visible and our hearts have been soaken,

in redemption and devotion,

'cuz I'm wishin' and I'm hopin'

That you will see what's so obvious to me,

That we were all on the same slave ship and we're finally free.

It was the barter for a martyr, God's son hung on a tree.

for a lost group of wretches called you and called me.

called you and called me.