If Job had told God
To kiss his tired ass,
We’d have no martyr
With which to compare
Our long-sufferings.
We’d ask each other
How things weren’t going,
Thrill to invective
Hurled to the heavens,
Absence of judgment.
But he praised instead,
set the bar too high.
So for forever,
Or what seems like it,
We fake forgiveness.
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