From desire to indifference,
He painted our lives upon the wall.
I asked, “Darling, does it make a difference?”
He said, “Color does.” But that was all.

I caught him crying at the altar.
He cursed the god he could not hear.
I tried to comfort, but I faltered.
Why would God leave an angel here?

I tried to explain faith kindly,
But his outrage made me pause.
“How can you believe so blindly?
Do you not know the pain He’s caused?”

Shamelessly, he sold his wings
And tried to find some sacred peace.
“I do not need such heav’nly things.”
But I heard him pray for things released.

He now could not return to heaven,
But Satan turned away as well.
So said the angel, “Though unforgiven,
I’m still too innocent for hell.”

One Sunday with the choir singing,
I chanced a glance at the ceiling.
There hung the angel, dead and swinging.
His eyes were open, almost appealing.
He took the step to find some healing.
They called it sick’ning;
I called it feeling.