Religion makes zealots,
Zealots make martyrs,
Martyrs make cowards,
Who run to brave men
when they get religion.
Over in the corner of the bar,
poor Jesus sits with some old leper,
tryin’ to change his spots
from the inside out.
While religion is busy,
makin’ zealots,
makin’ martyrs,
makin’ cowards,
who run to brave men,
when they get religion.
Meanwhile, tired Jesus sits in the bar,
wastin’ real love on some young whore,
tryin’ to get her to break her habit
and gettin’ mostly nowhere.
While religion makes zealots
and zealots make martyrs
and martyrs make cowards
and cowards run to brave men
when they get religion.
While sweet Jesus sits in the corner of the bar
praisin’ some old widow lady
to high heaven
though she never gave Him a dime.
And religion makes zealots
and zealots make martyrs
and martyrs make cowards
and cowards run to brave men,
when they get religion.
So, Jesus and twelve Jews walk into a bar,
really, it’s no joke.
But only Jesus stays.
The others go look for food or drink or sleep
and Jesus sits in the corner all night
with an old leper, a young whore and a poor widow.
He gets up from the stool about dawn
grinnin’ wide and trailing righteous love.
"What should I be?" I grab Him and ask.
"Well, don’t be a zealot," He says and brushes by me.
"No, what should I be?" I demand, to His shoulder.
"Well, I’m the Martyr," Jesus tells me, movin’ on to the door.
"I asked you what I should be," I shout to His back and now I’m mad.
I guess this is what He wants,
’cause now He turns and smiles to me.
"Don’t be a coward," He says and I open my mouth to interrupt.
He shushes me.
"You’re only brave when you’re alone," Jesus tells me.
And I shut up.
He leaves and I am no longer religious,
just alone,
and tryin’ to be brave.
