You wouldn’t send a baby to buy milk at the hardware store yet you expect me, a cretin, to be the perfect Christian Jesus, you have the chutzpah of P.T. Barnum if you are really endorsing perfectionism: the ideal set up for a large-scale fail the guarantor of psychic pain that bastard child of pride and shame that can make you hysterical. Perhaps we are made for perfection but never get there we never come to completion until after our last prayer. Perhaps your intention is we own our imperfection and in any situation act as if we are a Christian. Maybe you mean, “get busy as God is busy” that is, constantly creating a new creation. We all know this one is not perfection.
That’s for your attention to this imperfect poem. If you liked it, give it a heart.
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