A good Friday psalm
You are not a building.
You are not songs, millennia old.
I am yours and you are mine
and that is my joy
Please don’t let me take that for granted
Or stop thanking you–
for you are not a building
or angry mobs, but you are there
You are not this hate-filled debate
but you see it–hear it–and know
what is true–not this circular argument
that breaks our hearts
You are not my race.
You are not my gender.
You are not my house.
But my body is your temple
I beg you to open my eyes
so I see all of the truth.
Is it enough to know that I need you?
I know myself
I am no better or worse
than anyone on my screen, or
on my street, or in that building
that you are not