What wisdom have we salvaged from the cross
Whose blood stained wood did scour the sins of man?
Or did scribed suffering simple fate emboss
With images to haunt us for time’s span?
Do words 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 slender limbs lay on,
Not truth but falsehood 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.