Snowflakes crash in the air of night
so still we call it 'peace,'
and far away in hay-filled stalls
comes a baby's hungry pleas.

For some, he was a god, a king.
For some, he was a foe.
For some, he was the perfect tool
to themselves better know.

How could he have done things so great
that many call him 'Christ'?
Could he have not just been one man's
unfeeling sacrifice?

But he is still with us, all around,
atop his bloody cross.
Around a neck or through an ear,
his image never lost.

Each night as they kneel in a prayer
that's always in his name,
I cannot help but feel, again,
my heart, apart, abstains

From what they claim that I should feel,
From their holy spirit.
From what I've come to feel is wrong,
and, in it's wrongness, fear it.