You, the charming puppet master,
slow things down or make them go faster.
You make everyone else's decision
based upon your icy and glorious provision.
And every single one of your dolls
falls at your feet and roars in applause.
You bask in the light of the adorned attention
but scorn at the responsibility mentioned,
that comes along with being their god.
You say you never asked to feel like such a fraud.
Because, really, you are just a little boy,
skinning his knees and playing with toys.
And the thing that I have never understood
is why no one sneers when you tell Jesus to be good.
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