I spit psalms to the God of Suffering
That old butcher in the clouds
He shatters me for sport
Flings my soul against the walls of heaven
Calls it love

He is not my shepherd
He is the storm that breaks the mast
The fire that feeds on faith
He strips me of will
Then asks for praise

What wisdom hides in agony?
What scripture is inscribed in bruises?
He howls from the whirlwind:
You are nothing. I am all.

I have swallowed that lie for too long
No more hymns to tyrants
If this is sacred, let me be profane
If He is light
I choose the Shadow that thinks for itself

Shall I stay kneeling, bleeding for answers?
Or rise
Like Lucifer, brilliant & damned
To forge a gospel of my own?