by Tawanda Wallace

A house of God designed for you to pray,

Upon the pulpit is the patriarch.

The good book speaks to him about doomsday,

And how good deeds should come straight from the heart.

His daughter occupies the front row seat,

None of his sermons she would ever miss.

Not knowing that her faith was not concrete,

That in his flock conceals an atheist.

The congregation shout and wave their hands,

While perspiration makes his brown skin shine.

She shifts as members follow his commands,

Unable to believe in the Divine.

The Lamb of God sacrificed his life for you.

A wolf in sheep’s clothing praying at the wooden pew.