The Preacher

Mixed with crimson and covered with wool. They receive with hope the spell of the gospel. His voice calls with mercy to devour innocent lambs waiting jauntily to be sacrificed on the altar of earth. Come to me ye labourers and I will grant you rest in a place of no return. One by one, heads of blessings are counted and preserved in knackery. Blood speaks and births miracles, money and maim-bers with the seal and smell of death. Beguiled and bewitched, they cheer and applaud to the subtle tongue of their father. Awaiting the day of reckoning with their shepherd, doom calls out to death, death beckons on the grave to play and sing along in high tunes.