The white-washed tombs under stained-glass windows
strain out a gnat but swallow a camel;
to the alien, the poor, the widows,
they throw politic and polite trammel.

Mirror balls dazzle beneath the steeples,
but no one kneels before vacant altars.
Gospel beckons lost and lonely peoples,
but neutered and shamed its promise falters.

Voluminous words from preacher’s mouth spew;
coffers ring and a fine career is made.
He indulges thousands, but saves only few,
the cross, the Christ, are only a charade.

From the empty grave like Mt. Hermon’s dew,
O Lord, with your grace fill these empty pews.

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