They do not know

The human race does not recognize the face of grace,
has never dwelt in the space of its embrace.
The mirror does not have to look to tell and describe the disgrace
of its state and the hell that hides in the place of grace.

Some of us have never stroked the form of the Father’s face
with own hands as love has never been evoked before it was torn
from us to know that the only hurt was his hunger pains.

The problem is that death is not recognized but known,
and within this darkness our hearts have grown.
How little the survival of the thoughts that sustain
to grasp or fathom why his cup had to remain -
the sin and death of all humankind it had to contain,
so that a body full of real blood could be slain.

It is no coincidence that hearts are shut
at the sound of religion - evidently abrupt.
The slaughterhouse calls to those sheep that smell like wolves.

The question does not ask whether you suppose,
for the clock is too tired for the question to propose.
But I arose when I realized that the stench of
religion was first found within his nose.

And those demons of religion wait at the gate
so that burdens can make your decision and determine your fate.
But it’s never too late to relate to him who can take your spirit
and translate you from darkness to the light;
you are inevitably precious in his sight.

How could they not want what he died for?
That for which decayed bodies for millenniums had cried for?

Because so little of us will show
before the end of death row.

And because they simply do not know,
we simply do not know.