O sons of the eagle, O daughters of dust,
We chant of commandments, in “In God We Trust.”
Parchments held high, but hearts full of rust,
Trading the altar for profit and lust.
With banners unfurled and swords wrapped in text,
We thunder of judgment, whom next to vex.
Prophets of anger, in wrath we are hexed,
Forgetful of mercy – who cares what comes next?
Old scrolls we weaponise, verses we twist,
Shrink justice and kindness into a clenched fist.
Sabbaths for spectacle, tithe if you must,
Let widows and orphans endure in mistrust.
Woe to the scribes, the wolves on the run,
They pray for a kingdom where hate can be fun.
Blinded by power, we claim we have won,
But the stone tablets crack in the glare of the sun.
Speak not of forgiveness, nor meek who inherit,
Our gospel’s a hammer, and vengeance – the spirit.
Love thine own neighbour – (as long as he fits),
Stone any stranger the tribe won’t admit.
O fake sons of Zion, O saints of the screen,
Twittering daggers, obsessed with the mean.
You flaunt holy anger, compassion unseen –
Building whitewashed tombs where Good News had been.
The wilderness echoes: “Repent and turn back.”
It thunders for justice – not blood on the track.
Till hearts made of stone remember the crack –
And find in the silence the things that we lack.
by Bakchos
