POOR JESUS

I stare at the crucifix.
Poor Jesus.
He died for my sins, you know.
I thought He could hear me.
I prayed to Him.
My prayers were answered.
Sometimes.
"Why not all the time?", I thought.
My mother told me, "God has His reasons."
In God's time, not mine.
His way or the highway.
Then I learned that, "god is dead".
I quit praying.
Life had no sense.
Neither did I.
Maybe I needed an exorcism.
Drive the evil spirit out of me!
Frighten me with prayer.
Fear me with the flames of hell.
Poor Jesus.
I stare at His sad face.
I look at a statue, my mother had owned.
It was made out of plastic.
It had plastic tears.
A plastice crown of thorns, adorned its' head.
All her life, she believed.
She stared at the crucifix.
Poor Jesus.
I find Him, when I need Him.
I find Him, when I doubt.
I always can go back.
I stare at icons.
The crucicix.
Plastic statues.
Poor me.