Sharps

When I was young I asked to be
A spear in the hand of the Lord
And if I couldn’t be a spear
I asked that I would be His sword.

I’m older now and I have seen
Exactly what a spear can do
And what becomes of those live
By the swords they say are You.

So make of me a warm wet rag
To wipe the blood and shit away
And make of me a tourniquet
To keep the rush of death at bay.

If I must tear my brother’s flesh
If I must make my sister bleed
Make me a needle in your hand
When You the surgeon intercede.


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