I TURNED ON my television set a few afternoons ago and I saw what I believed to be the face of an angel. There was the prepubescent country chart-topper Billy Gilman on a bus, 12 years old (probably 11 when they filmed him), staring out the window at another young boy (not an angel), who dropped his gun into the river below, surrendering, at long last, to the glory of God--to a divine, heavenly love of humanity.

Gilman's voice shot through me like a healing burst of new country. "Thanks for the help/Down here on earth/A thousand prayers, a million words/One voice was heard...." I was witnessing the angel as martyr, as messenger, calling out in a crystalline soprano to the Lord on High, basically saying, "Hey God! It's scary down here. Heal us...." A single tear slid gently down my cheek and landed upon the wood of the floor beneath me. I was immersed in the experience of spiritual transformation.

Shortly thereafter I went to the corner store. It was a very bright evening, generous in clear sky and crisp fall air. I wondered to myself what time of day it was when Billy wrote that healing song, "One Voice." Was he outside? Pen or pencil? Typewriter? Was he 11, or even younger than that? Before I knew it, I was in my office, on the Internet, looking for answers at www.billygilman.com.

There were pictures. Lots and lots of pictures. Billy making a "rraaaaaarrrrrgh I'm a scary monster" face; Billy pouting; Billy smiling like an angel, wearing a bit too much makeup and hair product; Billy... what's this? Billy demurring? He sat coyly, poised like a cocky trigger, one arm creeping down his leg, his other hand crossed over to open his collar ever so slightly, revealing just a bit of shoulder... the insinuation of flesh. Billy, I thought.

I clicked on to the lyrics section and read "One Voice" for comfort. I started looking at other songs: "I Wanna Get to Ya." Excuse me? Included in the lyrics are such blasphemies as "Girl I know just what I've been missing/I wanna be the one you're kissin'.... I'll get down on my knees/I'll do anything...."

Those didn't sound to me like the lyrics of an angel, but of a 12-year-old hot-and-horny slut! "Another Night," "I Think She Likes Me," the list went on. And then I found the real gem, the album's frothy, masturbatory centerpiece: "The Snake Song." My pulse quickened: "He swallered a frog and hollered yum-yum/ He slid down the hillside and darted his tongue/He entered the garden on this bright moonlight night...." I was piqued, already suspicious after witnessing the slutty pictures. Then it got worse: "Although I'm short and stocky and you're long and lean/I've got a crush on you.... Then he squeezed her tighter/To excite her and delight her/ Oh I've got a crush on you/ (and I'll be back tomorrow)." Creepy, Billy. Really creepy. Immediately thereafter, to my utter misery and torment, I read the most blatant and hideously vile double-entendre a 12-year-old vixen could ever deliver: "Next day when he got there, a two-legged man/Was holding sweet green thing in his big human hand/A long jet of water shot out of her nose/Ol' king snake had fallen in love with a hose." I felt shame. Dirty and ashamed.

I'm not sleeping anymore. People try to convince me that none of this is Billy's doing--that he really is the angel he portrays himself to be in the "One Voice" song and video. They tell me Billy is a good little boy who is just being shamelessly manipulated by greedy, capitalistic music-industry pedophiles. I want so much to believe that. I know now that he doesn't write his own music, or even the lyrics, but he still sings them. His voice is sultry and womanish. His eyes are deep and cool. The skin of his shoulder peeks out at me. I lie awake nights wondering if I haven't heard the voice and seen the face of the very devil himself.