What beauty have we salvaged from the cross
Whose warm red blood did wash the sins of man?
Or did the suffering simply fate emboss
With images to haunt us for time’s span?
Do eyes of heaven stay the savage beast?
Does golden gaze instill civility?
Do promises of paradise decrease
The specter of man’s inhumanity?
When evanescent scriptural smoke is gone,
That scarecrow, soon all doubting eyes will see,
As but crossed staves that flimsy robes lay on,
Not truth but lies there practiced to deceive.
Thus, of these thoughts, and two millennia in,
The scarecrows’ clothes grow ragged in the wind.
© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.