My Father in Heaven,
If only the painter’s brush would colour you true,
But in his ignorance he has selected too drab a hue.
The people look upon his work of art
And mutter: surely that dull thing could not have a heart?
You are talked of, presumptions are made,
Intellectuals neuter your Word and grow cold in its shade.
They fashion for themselves theological membranes,
Folding You into the walls of their small soft brains.
The enemy lends sweet advice to the scholars:
Make comfy the people, and omit all horrors.
God’s Word is not literal; it’s too graphic, too gory!
It is your great duty to rewrite it as allegory.
The young shoot up straight and haughty from the ground,
The recycled trash of humanity’s reason the only sound.
From their mouths comes not fresh thought, but vomit,
And all the while Hell stacks up its profit.
The darkness swells and perversions blossom,
All rotting beneath my feet like the rank floor of autumn.
Surely the gouging of eyes cannot conceal its reek?
Is this blind stench of a life what they truly seek?
Set a hunger growling in their barest being, deep inside
So they cannot but eat of Christ, give thanks and say, I have died.
A new creature is born,
An infant spirit in an old form,
Eyes full of light, with nothing to hide.