Men, journeying to be saved, make their pilgrimage to the thicks of my thighs.
To kneel and pray at the baptismal font within my walls.
They mediate. Breathless.  
Their hands reaching out, filling their palms and anointing their faces.
Dousing themselves in blessing and cleansing themselves in carnal waters.
The waters that, if Christ himself chose to tread across— or even to wash his own feet in—would drown him… a sacrifice he would make, forsaking his father in turn, for the promise of eternal corruption.