Dribbling From the Pulpit

A prudent man walked intoxicatedly inside the temple gate He sits on the door steps and hang his head shamefully between his legs and whistle a somber tune. The skillfully crafted temple hoisted on the outskirt of town Once served as a pinnacle of hope now stands empty exposing signs of doom. Thousand of spiritual warriors, carnal minded and material minded sinners once paraded the corridors of the disfigured temple Bathing in the spirit and dancing vigorously to musical songs. I watched him lamenting in grief unable to hold back the tears He held his hands towards the heavens and cried out loudly in despair. Suddenly the day breaks ironing guilt upon shameless faces Mocking perishing souls, smothering wounded hearts And repudiating punctured bleeding vessels in the pews. The blistered irony resonates from the pulpit Spewing liquor, intoxicating believers and driving away strangers. Age old rocks buried deep beneath the kingdom of doom playing rock and roll at the piano and mumbling scores of honor. It dribbles and drops, dribbles and drops until it finally made a stop. Dozens of mighty men hang high up on the pulpit Filthy hands, disdained hearts and treacherous ways. They have blemished the pulpit and mutilated the pew. Sin drapes like gangster in suits crawling under skirts riding on collars ejecting deceptive agony in the pews and turned the congregation into a bitter gall. I sat in the pews for years listening to their stories watching the endless drama pushing and shoving bad mouthing and back stabbing and them praising their God While unseemly retribution creeps silently upon their doorsteps. Blinded by their own tyranny frighted by their own thoughts Sunday after Sunday they flock the temple seeking for something that wasn't there Suddenly a strange sensation ripped through the atmosphere Pulling saints off their feet And scattering material minded people in the streets. ©2014 Christine Phillips