Email Poem

Your IP Address: 18.221.165.81
Your Email Address:
To Email Address:
Subject
Personal Note:
Poem Title:
Poem
Fair Game
I am The All-Mighty, The Ever-Exalted, The Supremely-Eternal.
To me belongeth the universes, the heavens, the earths, what dwells in-between.
Jinn and Men, I have created, for a sole purpose; duties internal and external.
Worship, glorify, bow, and prostrate before me, but no other; ever-more-pristine.
Revere the sacred books, honor the apostles; believe in the seen and the unseen.
Affirm mine angels, and in destiny, favored and ill-favored, thou must believe.
Be certain of a day, in which the wicked and faithful, their fair dues, shall receive.

I am able to resurrect what lies beneath the grave;
From your first to last, I am able, with but a single word:
“Come unto me!” I say, on an hour that draws near and close; knowledge I save
 Into a book that none has touched nor heard.
On a day, unveiled shrewd eyes fear a book of deeds; sorrowful eyes deterred.
Bring unto me the ones that said, “Such a day may never come to lapse,”
And, “It is but one life.” Behold! Unto them comes a day where all shall collapse!

Set before me the ones that claimed, “Three are one” and “One is three.”
I am The One and The Only; I never did beget, nor am I begotten.
Such speech is but idolatry; false lies; ancient myths of your fathers told unto thee.
Christ was but a humble man, out of the devout Virgin’s womb; another miracle
Unto the tribe of Moses, yet they denied in conceit, claiming him a false spectacle.
They neither crucified, nor killed him, and his return marks the Hour;
And for the arrogant and blind-hearted the mere sight of him is ever-sour.

Gather unto me the wicked, the deceitful, and the hypocritical saints and scholars,
That altered my word for mere worldly profit and lame saintly pedestals.
Grudge forth the ones who sinfully distorted my holy verses for miserly dollars.
They chased after a counterfeited paradise, of gaudy looms and deafening lulls.
Lamenting fools curse disdainful saints on a mournful day like fiendish gulls,
The Sovereign inquired the Fire, “Art thou filled?” but, she hungered for more.
Behold a day in which the wicked begs, “Mayest I go back to settle mine score?”
CAPTCHA Preview
Type the characters you see in the picture
Required