Jesus Likes the Pretty Ones
In pews where sunlight slips through colored glass,
baptizing flawless skin in manufactured grace,
she floats in lavender lace, her lips rehearsed for prayers
that only echo beauty’s chase.
Mascara sculpted tears–he names her chosen, selfie-perfect,
sanctified by filtered beams,
she cries in public, speaks in light, and trades her hunger for designer dreams.
Her ankles crossed like icons framed in gold, the pious tilt of chin rehearsed–
he calls her “saved,” the golden girl, the first to feast, the last to thirst.
Behind her, faded dress and shoes that scuff along the tiled and empty aisle,
where dust collects on skin and shame–a face unfit for glossy style.
No camera lingers for the lost, no gospel touch for flesh unworn,
his smile is something earned by skin, by eyes that match the pastel dawn.
He passes by–the overlooked–the proof that faith’s a fashion show,
while beauty’s halo signals worth, and every sin must never show.
Beneath the cross, the symmetry is perfect, all the saints are airbrushed fair,
the prayers are measured by the dress, the purity of shining hair.
To them, salvation’s coded into genes, and heaven opens just for those
who learn the secret art of blending blush with modest prose.
He weighs the soul by silhouette, redemption sold in shades of cream,
confession, if it’s beautiful, is always more esteemed.
God walks the aisles with eyes for only those the crowd adores,
he counts the pageant girls as proof, then locks the darker doors.
Ugly pain is cast aside, left quaking in the vestibule,
while sins in silk are easily forgiven, sins in sweat dismissed as cruel.
Mercy here is market-priced, grace is rationed for the few,
a kingdom founded on the flawlessness that beauty buys for you.
She walks the aisle–a virgin queen–her shame made soft by pastel lies,
I linger in the shadow’s pew, too plain to even try.
They say the gospel’s open arms, but judge the ones their gaze ignores,
and bless the flawless over scars, then close the backroom doors.
The preacher preaches equal love, but smiles are measured, points are scored,
the center stage is where the sacred girls are shown and never bored.
Faith is just another filter here, applied to faces, masked in song,
where beauty is a god, and every plain girl learns she’s wrong.
And still the cross is polished bright, and every prayer rehearsed, not real,
but I have lived my gospel raw, my hands, my knees, my soul can feel.
She glows with grace, but I am haunted by the way he looked and passed me by–
the lesson clear: salvation’s priced, and pretty wins, and ugly dies.
Maybelline becomes the mask for every sin the blessed conceal,
while my confession tastes like rust and never gets the time to heal.
Jesus likes the pretty ones, it’s true–he calls them by their gloss and pose,
I kneel in shadow, never seen, and watch the door forever close.
Welcome’s just a word, a script, a gaze that flickers and retracts–
his grace, it seems, is written on the skin, not on the cracks.
In the pews where light can’t reach, the truth survives beneath the paint–
not every soul will get to rise, and ugly girls don’t get to be a saint.