They called him names
And smashed the mirrors of memory.
The blogger did his best for them.
The baby is now a young maiden, walking tall.
You knew what we and Errol did--the many sleepless nights
In the altar of sacrifice.
The burned offerings that the toddler might live
You know the many lies
The treacheries, the subterfuge.
Let your justice run its course, O Lord of Hosts.
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