I don't believe in anything they say,
In all the ways they call us dirty sinners,
Though we all have those debts to be repaid,
And sins that stack up through our own cold winters.
It's wrong because it isn't all we are;
I won't believe they've always done good work.
These hands of ours were holy from the start,
Though some, to love and peace, may seem averse.
Those hands could steal or kill or wage a war,
But who am I to send them all to hell?
The hand that points is what I most abhor,
Since I don't know what stories sinners tell.
Our characters take lifetimes to refine,
And every step that's human is divine.