Tilting at windmills

Acid etched,
Upon our souls,
There less a truth,
Now muddy,
From neglect.
That it is easier,
To judge,
Another’s actions,
Than our own.
For in the sing song,
Of our hymns,
We learn to see,
Ourselves,
As different.
Soldiers,
Warriors for Christ,
Bruised saints,
When challenged,
For only wishing,
To do good,
By damaging,
Another’s rights.
For we bring life,
Life eternal,
To the wretch,
Who thinks,
That he is happy,
In his sin,
And in condemning,
He reforms,
Receives the gift,
And suddenly,
Sees not,
The beauty,
In his life,
But rather sees,
The good as bad.
And like a curse,
Now sees the days,
When things go wrong,
Not as,
The ebb and flow,
Of chance,
But rather,
As the punishment,
For being,
Sinful human.
How easy is it,
Just to see,
The dark in others,
The sin they are?
How is it that,
We do not see,
Our own sin,
Far more dangerous?
The sins of,
Judgement and neglect,
Dressed up,
As Christian duty now.
For while we stand,
Fretting and foaming,
Over happy lives,
Frothing and spitting,
At a sin,
Which is another’s,
True identity,
Another sin is there.
The sin of idly watching as,
A child is homeless,
Or abused,
By men in pulpits,
A widow,
Left alone,
To spend her days,
In silence,  poor.
The greater sin,
Is to neglect,
The first call,
To the care of men,
Not fretting for their souls,
But for their lives.
But it is easier,
To condemn,
And worry,
For their life to come,
Because you cannot,
Be proved wrong,
Than to roll,
Your sleeves up,
Get dirty,
In this world,
Heal real pain,
Right real wrongs.
You chose instead,
To take the easy path.
And never question once,
If you are wrong,
Because detractors,
Can not prove,
You are.
So wreathed in,
Sanctimonious right,
Go forth into,
This world,
Condemn.
Destroy the happiness,
Of those,
Not similar,
And fight,
The fight.
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