I sit at the back of God's house
Among the wooden beams
The stained glass windows,
And your rhetoric.
You stand above your flock
So they may look up to you,
You are dressed in your finery
Which differentiates you
And sets you above your flock.
You preach of God's love
Then threaten dire consequences
For those who will not believe
Your words.
Why is this house of God
Empty
On frozen nights
When the disadvantaged
Have no shelter?
You return home to your palace
And your servants
Feeling self-satisfied.
This is not the work of God
It is the greed of mammon!
I shall return to the depths
Of Dante's levels
Where I shall wait
To welcome you
And all of your ilk!
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
Owain Glyn
