You Said That You Believe in God, But…
You said that you believe in God, but… your hands build walls instead of bridges, your words cut deep like sharpened edges.
You said that you believe in God, but… your eyes scan the lives of others, always watching, always prying, like their choices were yours to govern, like their burdens were yours to carry, not to ease, but to expose.
You said that you believe in God, but… you whisper names in rooms they’ll never enter, turning stories into sharpened rumors, calling it concern, calling it care, but it's never about helping, just about knowing.
You said that you believe in God, but… your faith is a mirror you hold to others, pointing out their cracks and stains, never stopping to see your own reflection.
You said that you believe in God, but… you preach of love yet measure worth, deciding who belongs, who deserves, as if grace was yours to give, as if redemption had a price only you could name.
You said that you believe in God, but… you speak of kindness yet walk with judgment, you ask for blessings yet curse in secret, you say "love thy neighbor" yet knock on their doors only to count their sins.
You said that you believe in God, but… you mistake curiosity for concern, entitlement for guidance, intrusion for wisdom.
You said that you believe in God, but… do you worship Him, or just the power of knowing more than the rest?








