THE CHOICE

Your last line is another instance of  your sacrificing sense on the altar of rhyme.   To chop one's name on rock is to cut one's name into pieces using rock as your cutting board. .  Did you mean **carve** your name **into/onto rock"?

And does doing so really equate with having done something good?  I've carved my name on trees and other surfaces.  But that hardly means I have done good or am being memorialized for doing so.   It's only when others carve you name upon something they've erected in your memory that this occurs.

And in what meter is this piece cast?  Given that it's lines are seven syllables long, it certainly isn't consistently trochaic.

Your knowledge of meter is zero. I am not going to teach you. Before criticising others, learn something about rhythms.
You explain as your unimaginative mind tells you. You haven't got the slightest  imagination for poetry. It's useless to answer people who are full of grudges and prejudice.

Yes or no.  Can a seven syllable line be consistently trochaic given that a trochaic foot is two syllables long?

And how does you ad hominem attack against me demonstrate that I am wrong about the meaning of your last line?.

He is surprised, he says,
how men delude themselves
within the bifurcated dream
that constitutes one’s life.
But what then is the hope that’s false
to which (he notes so apodictically)
some men adhere?

It isn’t clear
from what he writes.

Perhaps Lord Jesus will
illuminate my mind
to what this “poet” wishes
to convey by these opaque,
too rhyme wrought lines
within the lead-off stanza of
his latest scrawl.

For after all,
it’s Jesus who (he’s claimed)
has knowledge of the things
so hidden now from men like me
the ones he’s “deemed”
from up on high
as those among  
the blind to how his genius shows
in each “poetic” line
with which he blesses us.

Oh look!
I’ve mentioned Jesus here
That means,
I take it to be understood,
that my submission
must by all accounts
be seen as poetry
that’s very, very good.