pumping
parishioners suckling
pacifiers,
peddling
paychecks for
parking lot
prophecies that
please
palatable tongues and ears like
players
party-goers
pimps serving
prostitutes on
platters for
pennies and
promises
pretending to love God while
pursuing
peace with
purse strings - dollars and change
pillaging the body of Christ with hype
propaganda
passivity
pretense
partiality
politics, while Satan's taking
polaroids pics of the best
panhandlers and
pickpockets in the game, who are
propulgating his name with
poetic
praise spewing from
poison lips
paving a
paltry
pathway straight to hell. Yet trying to smoke
pipes of
peace with sanctified
people …
Patriotic? I don't think so … the saints are
praying that
paradise will come quickly in this man-made
paradox of tradition, where
parsonages are covered with
pretty
packaging -
packing corruption. But like Satan himself - they forget that
prophecy must be fulfilled on this
pendulum of life swinging,
pointing, deeply
piercing this
pageantry called church, the
power and authority of his word, from the mouths of simple
priests, like me, scribes like me … may seem
peculiar?
particular? Maybe even
plain?
But, I am still on
patrol led along a
path
paid off by the son of God who has left me standing, speaking of
peace, carrying this
potent message of
Pentecost,
repentance, and
penalty, urgently recalling
Passion Weeks and
Palm Sundays
applying His
precious blood on the door
posts of our nation with swords
pouring from
palates denouncing
pagan deities and embracing the
parables of Christ
proving that
parallels do not exist in this world or the next. There is only one way through this
parochial parlor. And it stands on a
platform of
peace.
God is bound by his word
My people
… repent.
Written by Theresa Harvard Johnson
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