At the Altar of the Ego

Much comes to us, but Your Kingdom remains a little.
It's my car, my house, my son.
But... where is what is ours?

Where is the communion that makes us feel sacred?
What kind of world is this, where we become sinners with the simple change of the wind?

Disrespecting history and our good customs.
We are not unfaithful for walking in other realms while praying.
We are human; a saint is one who has never sinned.

If Pix falls, thy will be done;
I entrust to you my dignity, my most precious possession.

And so we continue, with pockets full and souls empty.
We bought the sky in installments, we sold the sacred ground.
Amen to profit, for on the altar of ego, the 'we' has been crucified.