They preach of light, of love divine,
A truth transcendent, wholly benign.
Yet their tongues, like daggers, slice the air,
With hatred masked in a holy prayer.
The books they clutch, with pages worn,
Speak not of judgment, nor of scorn.
Yet from their lips, vitriol flows,
A river of rage where mercy won’t go.
“Love thy neighbor,” the scriptures cry,
But watch them turn with a spiteful eye.
“Peace on earth,” their banners claim,
While setting the world aflame in His name.
How quick they are to cast the stone,
To shield their sins, they’d break your bones.
A heart so foul, yet hands upraised,
Demanding God’s eternal praise.
If faith is a path, where is their grace?
Why the fury, the smirking face?
Is their belief a fragile veil,
Hiding the fear that they might fail?
For love was meant to bridge the divide,
Not tear with claws, not wound with pride.
Yet there they stand, devoid of shame,
Wielding their God like a weapon of blame.
The pious cloak, the saintly guise,
Shields the greed, the hate, the lies.
And in their shadow, truth is stilled,
As temples crumble, hearts grow chilled.
Oh, fragile human, grasping faith,
Twisting its beauty into wraiths.
What use is belief, so hollow and cold,
If love’s great promise remains unsold?
Where is the peace their sermons foretold?
The warmth of a God with a heart of gold?
Perhaps it lives, beyond their reach,
Where no man claims the right to preach.
Leave a Reply