From dust

They were


To dust

They will


Will St. Peter shake his head

When the last of them is dead?

Will he open the golden gate

Or do they deserve a different fate?

One makes murder, two makes war

Who digs the graves when they are no more?

Where must

Styx River

Take them.

Why must

They kill

Not learn.

In His image, they thought, He made them.

In whose image, are they not, forsaken?

Men in robes looked down,

Men in coats looked up.

Empiricists found no truth nor answer

And the righteous drank not His cup.

His trust

They never

Could awaken.

For the just

He will

Only yearn.

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