The Martial March of Christian Hypocrites

The grey flowers are there, melted like light
that has been washed away by acid rain,
stealing the hues of blue and red and white
we had wrapped and trapped our honor in vain
to prove we are better angels, bitter,
willing to kill to save the life we choose
over the soul we gladly surrender
rather than give to God fears, tears to lose
the pain of our proud perdition, invoked
like a benediction of hypocrites,
prying the lying tongues from where, provoked
by fears and tears we deny the shoe fits.
But God is not the fool to take your vow
as surrogate for truth, sword over plow.


William F. DeVault. All rights reserved.