As the Psalmist said,
“Why do the heathen rage,
And the peoples imagine a vain thing.”
The incessant ranting and raving,
Continuously roars out its rage and hate.
The chasms between us widen,
In the echo chambers of our separate tribes,
And their self preaching to their choir.
A confusion of tongues;
A Babel of sound.
Pressing down upon us,
Grinding us down.
No middle ground.
No place of meeting.
Left to ourselves in idolatry and pride;
Reaping what we sow.
Sowing to the wind;
Reaping the whirlwind.
We would not have Him rule over us,
So are left to rule ourselves,
In the cosmic anarchy and chaos,
Of the choices we have made;
While shaking our fists into the sky.
© May 2018, all rights reserved
