In this world of many a faith and god,
Man has managed to keep poor Him so vague—
Viewing Him in various ways to me odd—
A bookmark, tag, or a faith-hanging peg,
Not for his soul but welfare, wealth and weal,
His prayers are pleads hid like onion peal.
Man's often made God swallow bitter pill,
Vilifying, crucifying poor Him,
Take, labelling Him as son of devil,
Killing Him that He rise again supreme;
Yet, few want God close in the heart to rest,
He's scared. Is not soul enough of a pest?
And if God stands face to face, flesh and blood,
Doubt, if he can spot Him—this man so odd.
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Sonnets | 03.11.07 |
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem