Are prophets always cynical
With faces lined and grey?
At what point does hope break through;
When does night succumb to day?
When we decide we’ve had enough
Of Sunday morning/ Monday whoring
And face life with some honesty.
When we trade polite for a righteous fight,
And following the Nazarene,
Give up heaven for God’s glory.
But we’ve bought the box-store gospel lie
That we all have it together.
So we paint our faces
With sterile graces
And hope heaven will be better.
All the while our families crumble,
And our souls rumble
With a starving need for love.
Our daughters die unbeautified,
And our sons fear what they’re made of.
Here comes hope- our not dead God!
A dove on winds of fire!
His coming sears our masks away,
And peace rises from the pyre.
by Bill Scarrott
