The Beauty of Bones

The Beauty of Bones

We paved the lot,

polished the pews,

kept the baptistery heated,

argued over the carpet’s shade—

red might be too bold,

too much like blood.

We called it stewardship,

paint over rot,

air fresheners masking decay.

We took turns quoting the woes,

as if they weren’t meant for us,

as if hypocrisy were a relic,

a long-dead warning.

The smell of death lingers,

no matter how fresh the paint.

Inside, we strained out gnats,

swallowed camels whole,

counted seats, counted souls,

counted days until He came back.

We mistook the temple’s ruin

for our own righteousness,

mistook cleanliness for holiness,

mistook the absence of flies

for the presence of God.

But a grave is a grave,

even when it gleams in the sun,

even when the headstone is smooth,

even when the flowers are fresh.