An Empty Cross

Now the altar has ripped The pages off the holy writ And has forced it down The throats of the thirsty pew. They came like flock On a pasture looking for water To quench their thirst; But have been given vegetable oil. What is left of the Son Is just an empty cross Hanging or Drawn on the massive walls By a pagan artist. The greasy haired preacher With his imported accent, Has stunned God again and again. And in the chapel Just like in a stinking cattle farm, The cows are impenitently milked And God looks on in utter shock.