She says I'll roast in hell for not believing
the things she does the way she does. She says
my feigned agnosticism is deceiving
myself, not God, through whose mysterious ways
I'll learn too late that sulphurous fire and worms
that never die are my eternal fate.
She relishes the telling, as she forms
each loving syllable from finest hate.
Her husband offers hope: I needn't worry.
His Jesus has already paid the price
for all my sins. His Jesus seems a furry
comforter of sorts, cozy and nice.
Between a grievous torture and a sumptuous
reward - which Christian is the more presumptuous?