Dreaming of tempests

When God,

Sent forth his spawn,

His missionaries,

For Christ,

Out into the world,

He saw that it was good.

Saw in those sails,

Skimming across the oceans,

Carrying guns and bibles,

Blankets laced with filth,

Destined to wipe out,

Those who were there,

So that those,

Demanding more,

Could take it,

Easily,

He said that it was good.

He placed his hand,

Upon the righteous man,

The soldiers,

The preachers,

His men,

Raised them high,

Taking the bodies,

Of savage, half made beasts,

To raise his church,

Rejoicing for it was good.

God laughed.

Laughed at the death of those,

Who’s lands were taken,

Spirits broken,

Minds enslaved and taught,

To hate themselves,

And said,

“Now this is good”.

He raised his armies,

Armed them with steel,

Sent them across the world,

To smite the thinker,

And the different.

Ordained that all who walked,

A different path and lived,

On land more useful,

To his children,

Were to be thought,

Not as equal,

Not as having rights,

But animals,

Justified,

Sanctified,

By his hand,

By his word,

As ripe for picking,

Right for fire,

And slaughter.

God said that it was good,

To take their children,

Break their souls,

Teach them to remember,

His truth not their own.

To forget their past,

Their heritage,

And speak his language,

Think this thoughts,

Break themselves,

Until they were worthy,

To become,

The squatters in his house.

Second to his chosen ones,

Yet saved,

Not by grace or love,

But grudgingly,

So long as they,

The savage,

Almost men,

Gave all they had.

And God rejoiced,

Said that this was right,

And good.

Even today,

God walks through his marble halls,

Sits in his cadillac,

Wears designer suits,

Stands before his chosen ones,

Who sit like,

Rabbits,

Hypnotized,

By Eden’s snake,

Filling God’s pockets,

With their cash.

His loved ones,

His children,

Sit,

And here how he,

Is good and just,

Loving all men,

Except the ones,

Who have what he needs,

Wants,

And will not give it freely,

Accepting their place,

As heathen,

Slave,

Pagan,

Sinner.

God,

Stands in the pulpit,

Speaks of good,

So long as nothing,

Is returned,

From his storehouses,

His treasury,

To those from whom,

It was stolen,

Taken,

That,

God said is good.

And as the legacy,

Of that God,

Who takes the world,

Into the house of God,

Locking lives away,

From the joy,

They might have known,

I find myself,

Wishing,

For a different past,

While fighting,

To change,

The present,

Find myself wishing,

History had told,

Of tempests great,

Where the Satan,

Sank,

God’s killing ships,

His blood-soaked fleets.

Then I could say,

Now that is Good.

 

kells_111r2_dog

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