This is the Sanctum,
we all pay it our homage.
For all races and classes, it's now the opium,
a place to lose ones bondage.
That is the pulpit,
up there, we all made our profession.
With our embattled mind in conflict,
we walk away without confession.
These are the faithful,
they stare and cheer to the rhythms of worship.
Eccentrically mindful and doubtful
as a man of little faith, they are left to gossip.
We all are creatures,
seeking the sanctuary to secure our inequities.
By our faith we get cures,
but surely not resisting our act of iniquity.
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