They rant, shake their fists – very odd
thrusting all the world’s sin on You, God;
bodacious tenacity
loquacious mendacity
they worship themselves, these poor sods.
“The earth’s all we’ve got, not the stars!”
they chant, these drunk rajahs in bars;
“God doesn’t exist!”
profane mouths insist;
honor men who have sex with cigars.
Licentious depravity, their fame
unholy erotics their game;
lust nightly for flesh pots
mount every maid, then trot
their trysts out in verse sans all shame.
Habbakuk was right when he pled,
“God, visit the wicked with dread;
let all men soon see
You’re real." And for me
Your Son’s blood was preciously bled.
Father God, King, El Shaddai,
Jesus, my Lord, Adonai;
Spirit, my paraclete
Elohim, Godhead seat
reign in my life till I die.
Shield me from venomous men
who blaspheme with eloquent pen;
Your word is my sword
I wield it, my Lord,
till You come “rapturo” again.
Author notes
Written about 3 years ago or so; one of my few attempts at rhyme. I was angered about the sheer number of people whose work I see here worshipping the creation instead of the Creator. They prance about as if this choice makes them intellectuals and we who choose to believe in God with life application are mental defectives. So I wrote this "fit." *chuckling*
Critical commentary appreciated.
Comments
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Interesting initial observation, holding God accountable for the ills of the world, but not ourselves! Piercing "they worship themselves, these poor sods."
Counterpoint in the next stanza--"God doesn't exist" which would put the responsibility for solving problems squarely upon those creating them!
As you aptly note, hedonists and seekers of fame and fortune have small use for shame.
Loved the concluding three stanzas. Surely the armor of the Lord is requisite apparel for surviving our day!
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