I saw a prophet on the street:
His head was bowed in base defeat.
He had no home and naught to eat,
While pastors lie and steal and cheat,
And gratify our itching ears;
They pander for the cash and cheers.
And then the roar of masses strong
Drowns out the gentle tender song
Of Love. The rough and angry throng
Are but a clanging, strident gong.
True love is patient; love is kind;
But sometimes love is hard to find.
Religion is no opiate—
It is a cancer breeding hate.
The Church had promise to be great,
But then we closed and locked the gate.
To love is all we’re called to do—
Instead we fight o’er what is true.
The sweetness of the Word is lost;
The grace and welcome we have tossed.
We must return now to the Cross,
And burn away our filthy dross,
Our rags and rubbish, and the mould,
So all remains is purest gold.