Jesus, no doubt, is my hero and friend,
Till the end.
Was he perfect? Don’t know? But if So?
When he told the Pharisees that they were of their father the devil?
Was he sinning? Was he hating? Such that others could mock and revel?
In their own superiority? And his motives inferior?
My God, I feel wearier, every day,
That I feel the weight of the maternal scolds, and belittling things that folks say.
“Get a job!” “Get off the street?!”
“You’re just a burden as you sit there and beg at my feet!”
“You’re not a victim, so leave the past in the past!”
“That’s not nice, my little child, you’d better straighten up fast!”
Jesus, no doubt, is my hero and friend.
Till the end.
Was he perfect? Don’t know? But even if not?
I strive to be like him, and love him a lot.
And just as my Savior, got angry, I too,
Feel the fury of bias and the rage of pointed fingers.
Like singers, singing a song of condescension,
It reminds me of days that I am censured to mention,
When my dad was denied his pension,
Because of the tension,
Of his skin tone and refusal,
To be sheepish and bamboozled,
Am I Jesus, or even much like him?
Not really, I must admit?
But still he’s my Savior, even when I throw a fit.
And thank God he sees me truly,
Even when others scoff and chide.
And thank God he gives me courage,
For I refuse to run and hide.
For those like me, who started from the beginning at the bottom,
Our culture tends to view us as oh just a wee bit rotten,
And at the slightest hint of fury, seek to hunt us like Ben Laden.
So when I lose it? Yes I choose it?
This consequential crucifixion,
For I although others tend to want me silenced, prostrate in submission,
I have a savior, King, and best friend too, who never fails to listen.
Copyright © Woodrow Lucas