Bibles Poem by David Lewis Paget

You brought your Bibles and printed tracts
To a land that God has no heaven in,
For Tao, Confucious and Buddha, here
Had prior claims to the hearts you'd win.

You think you're holding a secret key
To truths that nobody else has found,
But minds far greater than yours despaired,
And you just cover the same old ground.

And pride lies heavy before a fall,
And vanity masks any truths you see,
The book you cherish is short on facts,
But lives in hopes, through eternity.

While all its chapters are written in blood,
The Jews, the Arabs, the Irish fools,
The swarthy Spanish Inquisitor
Who tore the flesh that he'd save poor souls.

The Reformation of England's Church,
All done for the sake of Anne Boleyn,
While Cranmer, Lambert, and Thomas More
Paid with their lives for Henry's sin.

I have no doubt that my God is there,
And sees the world through a mist of tears,
For what we've made of his mighty plan
Should shame us all for a thousand years.

But if it's a vengeful God you seek
Who waits to punish, and bring us pain,
I know him not, for the God I know
Would love us all, as I love my son.

But such as you can be never told,
You're sure, so sure, and you're born again;
Be sure that you live this life, not scold,
Good works aren't done on your knees, my friend!