Train up a Child

“Train up a child in the way he should go,”

and they will never depart—

not from the wounds, not from the whispers,

not from the fear that clenches the heart.

Tell them they are wicked from birth,

that their flesh is a curse to control.

Teach them to flinch at the voice of a father,

to silence the sound of their soul.

Call it love when you break them to pieces,

call it grace when you cover their cries.

Tell them obedience matters more than their voice,

that faith is the death of why.

“Spare the rod, spoil the child,”

so you wield it with scripture in hand.

Teach them that suffering brings them to God,

and wonder why they cannot stand.

Let their first fear be of burning,

of a hell waiting just past their doubt.

Teach them to fear their own questions,

to keep every whisper shut out.

Then call it rebellion when they learn to think,

when the cage you have built cannot hold.

Say they were led by the devil himself,

as they step from your fire, still cold.

For what is this doctrine but terror,

a cycle of shame and control?

If fear is the force that creates them,

what will be left of their soul?

“Train up a child?”

No—love them instead.

Let them be curious, wild, and free.

For faith built on fear is a prison,

and a child should never need key.