Jesus lies dying in my bed [bad word] since birth 
In this stagnant dingy haunt 
He has never really live. 
Last night I beat him, 
As he would not leave 
My insane eyes stare at him, 
As his wilted body bleeds. 
Frequently I rape him, 
As I know nothing else 
He curls up like a fetus, 
And paints his face with sadness. 

Now a fragment 
Of remorse is etched 
I bandage his wounds 
I kiss the face of Jesus Christ 
But he is dead. 

What can I do? 
You've forsaken me 
You called yourself messiah, 
And expected me to follow 
An now he lays dead, 
And your prophecies with him 
I will bury him not, 
As insult to your face. 

As I stare at his corpse, 
One detail disturbs me 
His cold, stark finger, 
Points where I have not been. 

From my house, 
The cage of rotten wood 
I stumble forth, 
To lay beneath the bush 
Withered bones groan, 
I cultivate 
As the soil and I grow closer. 

The sun recieves an empty gaze 
It mourns, 
It knows my life is gone 
No more to offer 
But my flesh to this soil 
And a single tear 
Marks my final prayer. 
The rosebud sits 
In the palm of your hand 
As I end, this flower blossoms.