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Dire francis – Help! I Don’t Know How To Love My God

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HELP! I DON’T KNOW HOW TO LOVE MY GOD BY DIRE FRANCIS

When tears like a river would flow,
In pursuit of good tidings,
When I would rant of my unwavering faith in him,
And then tie Baba’s charms around my waist,
Please help me, I don’t know how to love my God.

When I purge the altar with my alluring voice,
Filling with anointing, the so-called ministers,
Who frequents my abode for extra prayers,
Binding and casting the demons which now possessed us,
Help me, I don’t know how to love my God.

When I would judge sinners at the confessional,
Dismissing them with the sign of the cross,
Executing strict penance for the forgiveness of sins,
Yet I’m tied to the anchor of my depravities,
Please help, I don’t know how to love my God.

When I dance to the altar in my designers dress,
Blessing the Lord with shouts of thank you,
Multiplying the house of God with fat feasts,
Yet I never gave credence to my hungry neighbor who has nothing,
Help me, I don’t know how to love my God.

When my father sees me as an epitome of a chaste woman,
And I pride the church with the cloak of a pastor’s daughter,
Speaking in the tongue of angels for all to hear and marvel,
But just one smile, the daughter of Zion have remove pant,
Oh please, help me, it’s too much to bear.

When I preach about the evils of fornication,
Admonishing youths with my lectures,
Yet at the eleventh hour, when I’m sure God is not watching,
I order the likes of Sister Janet to lie down for ministration,
Help me, I don’t know how to love my God.

When I gallivant in flowing white robes,
Imitating the saints in my choice of prayer,
Geneflecting at the mention of Jesus’s name,
But still find myself in front of the door of the stranger who is not my God,
Now I really need help, I don’t know how to love my God.

When my parents would smile on my return from the university,
Swearing with their life that their daughter knows no man,
Vowing with their soul to marry me off as a virgin,
Yet I married myself off to Gerald without my parent’s consent,
I’m doomed, help me, I don’t know how to love my God.

When being the pastor’s son means all the girls must crush on me,
Exploring my body with their lust-filled dubious minds,
Energizing the church with how well I preach like my Dad,
Yet meets the devil at the back with already-waiting porn,
Help, I don’t know how to love my God.

© Dire Francis

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