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They came with robes and golden rings,
Not to heal — but to own sacred things.
With Bibles bound in blood and silk,
They turned living water into poisoned milk.

Altars became ATMs,
Forgiveness priced in tithes and gems.
Salvation auctioned on Sunday screens,
While hungry mouths haunt shattered dreams.

They preach of heaven, sowing fear,
But drive their heaven in Bentleys near.
They claim to serve the Lamb once slain —
Yet dine in halls of Caesar's gain.

Not soul but ego leads the choir,
Their prayers are wires, their God — empire.
The gospel now a corporate creed,
With holy names used just for greed.

But beneath this glass cathedral’s dome,
The Spirit weeps and finds no home.
For truth is quiet, love is free,
Not bound by walls or policy.

And still, the light that can't be sold,
Flickers in hearts both brave and bold.
The soul knows lies, the heart can see —
That faith was never meant to flee.

So let them sell their plastic grace,
While truth returns to its rightful place.
Not in a pulpit draped in gold —
But in the silence prophets hold.

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