the fire of the Lord,
you walk the way that
He would stride
and talk the way
He should be communicating
You say you have
the keys to joy and bliss
and yet all you can offer
is the door to hate and
the path to the bigot's lair
When you stand in the front of the mirror
shorn of your sequined garb
and your silken linings,
do you see the face of your Father
or do you count those
wrinkles that bear the weight
of your spite and wanton rantings
on what is right or what is wrong
as you would see
as you would decree
When you stare at yourself
do you think of how
the son of the Lord would opine
on your riches, your marbled edifices
your golden tiaras and Prada steps
your bullet-proof Mercedes and
your mile-long retinues
your trail of sycophants
the confetti and the sheep of your cult
those showers of praise and
adulation...do they make you that
you're greater than thine Father in Heaven
and do you really need Him more
than He needs you
When those long and stately hallways
grow longer still
when the giant windows that
frame your sheep grow dimmer still
When your feet finally yield to
your lifelong burden of deception
Will your soul step up and teach you
a few common courtesies that you denied
your world...like a little humility, brotherhood,
love and tolerance of the other.
"It's your mother, Lord...did you forget her birthday?"
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