Well, the woman sat in the back of the sanctuary,

and she knew what to do when eye contact was necessary.

She'd purse her lips and pace her smile to the rhythm of a turnstile, and all the while shes wondering what they'd do if they knew:

this mother'd never say a prayer for you.

 

Well, she had to act fast - it was mildly unsettling -

they'd covered in wreaths her own soul without her blessing.

Adorned in red her heaven-sent appropriately docile head, and set it on a pedestal to touch

(but not very much).

 

She's alabaster irony, the patron saint of make-believe

A moment of your time, good sir,

to elevate and exile her.

We'll speak in perfect harmony ascending like a deity, and memorize between the lines to forget our humanity.

It's alabaster irony - the patron saint we make believe

A moment of your time, good sir,

to make believe that I am her.

We'll speak in perfect harmony ascending like a deity

and memorize between the lines to forget our humanity.

 

Well, the Boy had sat in her lap in the sanctuary,

made of skin wearing thin like his threadbare obituary.

And he broke her smile and he broke her heart,

but that was not the hardest part.

It seems that it was all for naught if all of them had become caught up in the lies the Serpent spins:

“We must ascend to be like Him!

Elevate our empty ways, conditionally be appraised!

“Have you forgotten,” the Mother cries,“the Bridge between the Other Side?

The socks I knit, the bruises I kissed!

Yes, that's the God i know and miss: human.”

Patron saint make me believe!

 

(And blue shoes and a bright white veil await her,

and the sunshine pales in comparison to his warm embrace.

He’s the very one who will show us grace.)