They said, submit, sister,
your strength is a sin.
Kneel at the altar of his headship,
let his voice lead, ignore your intuition.
Her body, a temple, they claimed,
but not her own.
Every word of hers, a stone cast,
while his lies built a throne.
You are Jezebel incarnate,
they spit with holy breath,
while her spirit bent and broke
under the weight of her own “righteous” death.
The pastor preached power
with a smile dipped in gold,
his hands gripping her faith
as if it were his to hold.
Behind stained-glass prisons,
she learned to doubt her name,
her dreams made small,
her fire called shame.
But tonight, she rises.
The pews quake under her steps.
She is done being quiet,
Finished fearing the “holy” threats.
Her voice, a storm brewing,
Creating a crack in the façade.
“Your voice no longer controls me, I now worship a much bigger God.”
Her scars are now a scripture
they cannot rewrite.
Her tears now a baptism
in the dark night.
She stands at the pulpit of her soul,
ripping pages from their twisted scroll.
“Not today, not ever again,” she cries.
“My body is not for your lustful eyes.”
She walks out the door,
Her power lighting the way.
The weight of abuse has gone
And liberation is here to stay.
Freedom is her new song,
Her faith in God is strong
The church no longer gets to define
That Jesus the “liberator” is mine.
(A poem collaboration between me & OpenAI, 2025)
