Wailing Idols of Wood
Under the sun and moon, flawed men linger in the cold
Who in the mist of darkness, cut and rip apart trees eons old
While stepping on grass and insects for wood to be sold
Deaf to the pleas the light within makes to them while men seek for gold
To make for themselves gods to care as well as impugn
Blind to the Father of Greatness who stands above the sun and moon
Carving the wood with knives with the edges razor thin
Into aggressive lions, venomous serpents, armed men of sin
Maidens with iron-grey painted on their senseless skin
Leaving spikes to pierce through the lights of purity trapped within
And with skill, they craft horned bulls painted with bronze for flair
Leaving the spirits to burn in despair, with smoke to fill the air
And to sell them like slaves that customers have to pay
Though these gods are the apparent wisdom and light, or so they pray
Hanging them with silver chains by their necks as display
Trading them as property despite calling them the gods each day
Painted in blood red to make them easier to trade
With tears unseen flowing to the blue sky for tranquillizing aid
Bowing down to the wailing statue to be devote
With the worshippers filling the room with prayerful chants with each throat
Maybe praying for their deceased children’s river boat
While blindly bowing, with raining tears, to their children’s wooden coat
A statue sitting down with a serene face and veil
With souls in that chaotic Samsara, in that cyclical flail
Giving fruits of all colours that are pleasing to see
For the trapped souls to smell their brethren rotting as a death-filled sea
Pouring fish blood unto the wooden corpse of a tree
To show loyalty to the wooden carcass with their prayerful glee
Half the wood they burn for food which is perishable
Half the wood they worship as a god who is imperishable
Craftsmen make wooden crosses of a man crucified
To honour the one Christ whom the world of winter’s darkness denied
While nailing the Suffering Jesus with hands applied
Further crucifying the Cross of Light within the wood that died
May the light be free from the lion-headed craftsman
May the light, through the sun and moon, become the one and only Perfect Man
Copyright © David Hyatt-Bickle | Year Posted 2023
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