Our father of suffering,
we thank you for your gifts of pointless pain;
we all of us are worthless.
We blame ourselves completely
for all the mess that you made and put us in.
We hate ourselves in your name:
bestow on us all your wondrous works of self-loathing,
fear of success and crippling insecurity of spirit.
We praise you for your poverty of kindness.
Raise up our crosses, Lord,
and nail us to them in your wise benevolence.
Accept the contrition of our pain and anguish
as proof of our devotion.
Maim us, torture us, kill us
as sacrifices you created to suffer in your name.
Send us down to Hell where we belong
with all your countless sinners,
while you survey the catastrophic heap of your creation
from your throne on high in highest Heaven
where only you can sit
in perfect isolation: a smug, conceited, condescending,
patronising
version of love
which only you can know
or even understand.
Besides frantic compulsive masturbation that's about all one could glean from monks' religionism aka self-flagellation but deeper darker misrepresentations are to be gleaned from whiter sepulchres such as john metcalfe a wolf donning significant sheeps clothing
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