Their tongues proclaim his sacred name,
yet hearts are cold as stone, unkind.
They twist his words to cloak their shame,
and leave the lost and lame behind.
The stranger knocks — no door is wide,
The hungry plead — no table spread.
Their gilded altars glow with pride,
while mercy starves and truth lies dead,
They preach of peace, yet forge the sword.
They sing of love, yet show disdain.
Their prayers sent high are not toward
the broken, burdened, or in pain.
Once more, beneath their pious guise,
they nail him there — and call it wise.