Where’s the Real Hospital?
If the Church is a hospital for the broken,
Why does everyone dress the best on Sundays?
Who are they there to impress?
God, who doesn’t give two cents about your clothes?
I’m looked down upon if I don’t wear well-polished shoes,
Nice cologne and a bouncing bow tie.
Well, tie your lies around your neck and drown in the Red Seas
With the Egyptians that enslave ideologies with the idols they bow down to.
I’ll go to church with a simple t-shirt and ripped jeans, wear Old Spice
With an unshaven face.
My ripped jacket will be my comfort in this cold building.
All these other church-goers with their broken self, suited up
Unnecessary fashion and large hats.
What’s the point of having that flower in your hair?
What’s the point of that cake-looking hat that you wear?
Have you ever seen a dying patient who took time to dress up
Before going to the hospital?
It’s like getting shot and saying,
“Oh shit! I’m shot! I need to go to the hospital! But first, I must change–
I’ve got blood on my clothes.”