Here in America, between the coasts
Christianity is like the seaInvisible, and salty as can be.
Haunted as we are by undead ghosts
(The genocides we've done, in all their hosts)
We cannot exorcise them properly
Until we recognize that to be free
Is nothing like our vain and feeble boasts.
The irony that rises above all
Is that true Christlike care could make us so
But when I hear of Christ, it does not call
For good for all, but gold for those we know
And so we all remain in total thrall
To impulse--which true freedom must forego.