my Lot



My Jesus, My Lord.  Am I destined for hell?

Your taste extremely bitter,

Intoxicating fragrance can’t smell. 

You’re without sin but I wallow in it.

I’m the black sheep of the flock in more ways than one. 

A man that loves men, that’s what I am. 

This you already know as part of your plan. 

I must be myself, the best that I can. 


When among others, idly we talk. 

Not gospel of song but gossip of rot. 

I ponder O Lord, what’s to be my Lot? 

Enter a fiery furnace that eradicates me? 

Like Judas Iscariot, disgraced and hung in a tree? 

Or be the woman at the well that you set free? 


Will I become a violent Hitler or a peaceful Ghandi? 

I must be myself, the best that I can. 


© David Girard 25/03/15

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