By Marcus Stringer

Father forgive them,
for they know not what they do.

Yes, my brother and sister, Lord.
They whip me, like yours whipped you.

The long leather strands reach forth,
sharp medal barbs fill the tail.

My heart! They're gouging at my heart!
They tear at my love — for them, for me.
On me they spit and jeer with righteous glee.

"Alright, our deeds are alright," to me they say
"We might be black, but at least we're not gay!"

But is it all right?
Is it really all right for them to treat me this way?

Father, forgive them.
Maybe you know why they do what they do.
Help me forgive them.