An Ancient Wrong
If I were a preacher ordained to preach,
I would sing as an angel,
In sinners ears.
Though my lips are numb,
I stand guilty,
Of thoughts of sin.
There are people In our congregation,
With their feet in the grave.
The grave is a fine and private place,
Where the rainbow sheds its glory
And the night kisses breezes,
In the moonlight.
A dizzy brain wobbles when it walks,
A heart glaced with pride,
Pauses to breathe between lies.
Best for them to hide,
Their skeletons in the grave.
It's like correcting an ancient wrong.
A dreary wrong of hunger,
Not of the belly kind,
But of pride and wealth and lust.
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