‘’Make perfect your work,’’ a Gospeller booms lordly
To the congregation, ‘’the Lord’s word came to me
And said, ‘Good men have good works and glad.’’’
Every Sunday, a bible on the right of his hand,
A newspaper on the left offered at the altar in a firm voice,
The word of the people to God, precise with turmoil,
The inconvenience of weather, imperial expansion
And the blood sacrifice it demands, corruption
By lechery, greed, usury, power, untruth, fear;
‘’…thy will be done…’’ He leads the Lord’s prayer
The congregation, on this cue, follow along,
‘’…thy will be done will be done forgone
After a few adjustments by the rational mind,
To dodge the looming questions that are ill-timed,
To design happiness by postponing it today.
May the fire of temptation never thirst in its play,
Rue to triumph after we’re too forgetful of death cuts.
It’s enough wood to add to the fire, which leaves us
Cold and bitter and angry.’’ And they all say rushed,
‘’Amen.’’ The thorn that regrows with excellent distrust
For each other in its reciprocity and evinced
By another print of newspaper on the altar, sit.