Of being good

The greatest sign of goodness,
is the one we rarely see
We lay down rules so stringent,
not letting a man breathe

We talk of religion and goodness
and worship an image of idealism
But when the time comes to act,
Our souls are locked in a dark prison

In prayers, we find wisdom
As our conscience bleeds
Then we judge and we hate
Oh how humane, indeed!

You can't kill a man,
they say all the time
But for the conscience you murdered
There's no defined fine.

We sing out so loud
With the priest and the choir
then we hate and we hurt
and place our love on the pyre

We speak of goodness
while we're still callous
Shun those who don't fit in
Aren't we all paupers,
filled with but, malice?

We all think we're good,
the man who killed
the man who lied
Because, as long as we sing to the priest
Our cold souls will be redeemed.

~