Pretense by Bill Scarrott

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

Unfinished Business

Eating the agony that the cross brings
I dance away from puppet strings,
And skip down down into the grave;
No longer trying to be brave.

I remain here silent dark and cold;
human giving way to mold,
And sigh with only worms to hear
At he futility of wealth of fear.

I have become a chrysalis,
And all I was you mourn, you miss,
But while you grieve remember this:
The ground and heaven hold discontent;
The living are for death not meant.

I'll be back and beautiful
With heart eternal, powerful.
Yes there is lack now for awhile,
But seconds pass and make me smile.

For I now see that the future holds
More than clouds and harps of gold.
Dreams now lost will be redeemed;
Hope dull, tarnished, soon with glory gleams.

Resurrection was more than an afterthought;
When debts were paid there was a future bought.
Upon the cross we live, we die,
And then laugh, breathe; bury the tears we cried.

by Bill Scarrott

I wrote this poem out of a desire to do more than die and go to heaven. I'm pretty sure I'm going to die and then come back to life.