The Wolf

The Wolf In Front Of The Pulpit

Tell me—

How does a man raise his hands to heaven on Sunday,
when those same hands bruised my body on Thursday night?
How does he bow his head in prayer
while plotting lies between the sheets of strangers?

What hymn can cleanse the blood of betrayal,
what sermon erases the cries of a twelve-year-old girl,
or the shattered bones of a family torn by rage?
Does the choir drown out the sound of his sins,
Or do the walls of the church echo with them still?

Is salvation a costume,
to be worn like a mask before the altar,
then stripped away in the heat of lustful desires?
Is faith a shield for cowards?
Or a cloak for wolves who hunt among the lambs?

I ask—

How many more daughters must carry his shadows?
How many fathers must bleed on the street,
how many women must whisper their pain into silence
for him to be seen for what he truly is?

Yet truth cannot be buried forever.
A man may deceive the pews,
but not the Judge who sees beyond the steeple.
And when the final word is spoken,
no scripture, no lover, no lie
will save him from the fire he built with his own hands.

Is the church blind to wolves
draped in the garments of the faithful?

He calls it love—

But I know the taste of his poison.
He calls it faith—
but I have seen him barter holiness
for the shadows of swingers and shame.
He calls himself Christian—
Yet still he sharpens his cruelty in secret.

And still—

I rise.
Though he crushed my body,
My spirit was not his to break.
Though he silenced my voice,
My truth now thunders louder than his deceit.
Though he wrapped chains around my heart,
I shattered them with the strength of survival.

I ask you—

Who is the prisoner now?
The one who hides behind hymns and hollow sermons,
Or the woman who walks free with scars that speak of victory?

Yes, he may fool the pews.
But he cannot fool the heavens.
He may dance with darkness,
But LIGHT will hunt him still.
And when his name is weighed in the scales of truth,
He will find no mercy.
For mercy was what he stole.

Remember this—

He is not my ending.
I am not his victim.
I am the storm that outlasted his fury.
The survivor who rose from the ashes
I am the light that exposed a narcissistic predator, an animal that calls himself a Christian.