The arms you cut off that Sunday night

Of the young man who ran screaming through the street,

Streaming blood in trails of terror

Are the arms that point me to my door,

Which forsaken by the blood of Jesus,

Invites the Devil, who now waits for me outside.

The arms that you cut off that Sunday night

Are the arms that point to the red eyes

Of the pentecostal killers and the black eyes

Of the roman catholic killers and the blue eyes

Of the pinhead skinhead killers,

And the dirty angel does his target practice night and day,

Making ready now to steal my soul away.

The arms that you cut off that Sunday night

Are the arms that wait between my T.V. and my gun,

While the winks and smiles of singing debutantes and eunuchs whisper,

"We don’t want you, Unclean, lying there in vomit, filth, and perspiration,

coming back with Jesus or with Elvis from the dead."

The arms that you cut off the body

Of the screaming young man

Dance before my eyes the endless murder of my soul

Which, taunted every hour by open windows,

Has kept itself alive with prayer,

But not for miracles,

And not for heaven,

Just for silence,

And for mercy

Until the end.