The Funeral Of God
We sleep in the chapel
only to awake inside a bombshell.
Can you hear the church bells
over the sirens? over the silence?
I've never seen violence so vibrant.
Soon they'll hide the gravestones
in the highways and roads
and we'll pave our own way to hell;
traveling in earths slow spiral.
Behind a trail of fire you'll find
the burning eyes of liars on trial.
The incense of innocence is
filling nostrils with a stale smell.
While we walk down the aisle
church hospitality grows hostile,
whores can be defiled by their smiles
and pastors brought to pasture
like a lamb to slaughter.
What a gentle sided genocide
we guide our society towards,
for generations learn to curse love
but hate is also a four letter word.
It's a sermon better heard in brialle.
Fingers held against a kings three nails,
as faith fails the ageing athiest who learned
God left certain prayers unanswered.
So they curse church as tears tear a whole
in their hymnal, with no candle
or lamplight to follow home.
Pick up your cross-roads where
the wide meets narrow.
Read this parable to the deplorable
as we ordane the ordinary
and proclaim only whats
deemed appropriate at the pulpit.
This is for those who can't face the facade,
that all this was said from the funeral of God.