In Hand

In hand, you hate me like a drunk hates rum;
You stumble into church and fall in line,
But later sit and stare into the sun,
Trying to see His face, but going blind.
You love me like cigars, but with your family
You fear they'll smell the smoke that's all my fault.
You hate me: You're a lock and I'm your key,
Releasing crawling things from your dark vault.
But quake no more: I'll lead your faltering fingers
To light the lamp that melts the shadows so you see
Those crawling things aren't worms of guilt that lingers,
But butterflies, straining to break free.
   You try to to find the light by searching the Above
   When in truth, He lives inside, and lives in love.