Prodigal

Back then
when I was born again
the Church reached out to me
its prodigal daughter, who years ago
had spit upon the marble steps I once
toddled with folded hands and eyes upturned
a green wreathed halo resting on my little head.

Now I was
to be forgiven
taken back into the fold
Alleluia . . . Praise the Lord!
I thought so much had changed
I didn't have to prove myself a Catholic,
not this time in these new grass roots.

Open arms
reached out to me
at every turn and called me
their beloved, as tears of joy began
their daily flood upon my happy holy cheeks
I belonged again and this time I would never ever
leave, for now I was loved and accepted, sins and all.

This time
I could shout "Amen!"
wave my arms and roll my eyes
ecstasy was just around the corner with
the laying on of hands and the humming babble
of tongues . . . this new sweet grass, this new Church
where all God's children were prophets, healers and saints.

Sounds amazing, huh?

But as time went on
and they'd scrubbed my joy and talents
clean down to the bone with their holy wire brush
the new sweet grass began to wilt and die once more
and my sweet Jesus turned and climbed back up . . . upon his Cross.

Joanne Cucinello © 2011