My Kind of Christian to Your Kind of Wiccan

In the end, I'm glad I have you.

I thought about us today.
Just a little—
A tickle
In the back of my mind.
That corner I rarely tread,
And only on the rarest occasions when
Something in the crevice
So catches my notice.
Yes.
I thought about us today.
About my kind of Christian,
To your kind of Wiccan.
It’s kind of strange, you see,
To find two of different faiths as we,
Who can call each other “friend,”
Even though we might offend
Each other now and then.
My kind of Christian
To your kind of Wiccan—
Ha, who’d have thought?
That though we disagree,
I still smile when I see
You.
And it struck me today,
That I’m even unafraid.
Our kinds have reputations,
Both gentle
And uncivil.
Some of my people,
Those excitable few,
Take voices in the streets,
Shouting and condemning,
Pointing fingers and damning.
Pressure,
Pressure,
“REPENT,”
They cry.
And I’m sorry, am I.
Sorry they shout at you so.
It’s not fair to judge you under Law’s throne
When we’ve been pardoned and saved,
Loved, given mercy, all under grace.
So I’m sorry—I’m different—I love you.
Yet for that, I’m not sorry.
And your people, too, I’ve heard,
Those excitable few,
Don’t take kindly to me.
I say,
“I’m Christian,” and they—
—Well—
I’m glad I, at least, have you.
You, yourself, are different, too.
I know if I hit a troubled sort
Of your people, and I’m caught and hurt,
To you I’d flee
Because you’d defend me.
So here I claim your sanctuary, too.
Should that finger of self-imposed justice
Turn its way to you,
Come, fly, run, escape to me.
I will protect you.
For I know my kind;
I know our pride.
And although it isn’t right
In my very peer’s eyes,
I insist on loving you.
(It's what’s right in His.)

The End

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