What if it was bloodstained hands that created this picture
A stained glass image illuminated by a malformed sun
In its presence your heart was joyful, your soul uplifted
Propelled not by divinity but the falling hammer of a gun
In the night when the painters brushstrokes bring us comfort
From these memories that shaped us, made us be
A madness descends and we like judges before the pulpit
Condemn those whose sentiment would set us free
Drawing perfect circles their convictions fail and falter
The creators themselves broken and badly designed
Only the martyred will stand intact before this altar
Rejected, baring the scars of a great artwork misaligned
