Woe To You
You live in sapphire-decked castles. You wear soft muslin clothes.
The snugness of mundane wealth, like the termite, eats you up.
Though you care less for God, in his name, you dare to take oaths.
With your vanilla wines, the pains of the poor fill your cup.
You're already comforted, Jesus said; what more do you need?
Why do you need a heaven above when you have it here?
Woe to you because you've killed your soul due to your greed.
The unending furnace of the afterlife, don't you fear?
The tears of the poor you mock at utter: you'll mourn as well.
Do you, at your conceit, shout and jump as though on cloud nine?
You're galloping like a drunken horse, unaware of hell.
Cobwebs of lust, spite, wrath, and sloth have filled your inner shrine.
Could any bird, with a snake that eats its eggs, feel at ease?
On you, the wrath of the one who loves them will never cease.
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