In the grip of passion,
I find my church,
beneath my hands,
salvation perches.
Each moan a hymn,
each gasp a prayer,
in the sanctity of sheets,
I strip souls bare.
Believing I’m anointed
to heal through bliss,
in every touch,
a sanctifying kiss.
The room glows,
halos hover in heated air,
sacred silhouettes
in the dimmed affair.
I see the divine
in the arch of a back,
in the crescendo of cries.
Holy am I,
in the temple of our skin,
delivering rapture,
absolving sin.
I’m the messiah of the midnight mass,
in our communion,
no one is outcast.
Feel holy in the hold,
in the rise and fall,
under halos,
we transcend, we enthrall.
Each climax a sermon,
each sigh a creed,
in the gospel of pleasure,
find what you need.
But is this delusion?
A mind’s fractured sight?
Or a touch of divinity in the night?
With every partner,
a congregation found,
in the liturgy of lust,
my faith is bound.
So I’ll keep preaching
where bodies entwine,
in each sacred encounter,
a sign divine.
Through the ecstasy,
my purpose is clear,
in the haven of passion,
we escape our fear.