An Empty Cross

Now the altar has ripped
The pages off the holy writ
And has forced it down
The throats of the thirsty pew.

They came like flock
On a pasture looking for water
To quench their thirst;
But have been given vegetable oil.

What is left of the Son
Is just an empty cross
Hanging or
Drawn on the massive walls
By a pagan artist.

The greasy haired preacher
With his imported accent,
Has stunned God again and again.

And in the chapel
Just like in a stinking cattle farm,
The cows are impenitently milked
And God looks on in utter shock.