Sparkatale

Faith bound in midnight, edges rough,

the twentieth letter on its face.

Tissue thin pages, within inscribed

translated salvation.

He held it proudly in his hand,

high above his head as he ranted

to save all our souls from damnation

and thus redeem his own.

He condemns all but not himself.

Claiming to be above all such faults

He waves this black testament skyward

As if to call on God.

That simple tome, that oldest lore,

the words of sinners and saints long past,

Held by this small-minded mortal man.

It seems like a cruel joke.

It is a poor measure of faith

Cheaply bound in blatant righteousness

Did he not read of pride and judgment

or of intolerance?

It is a cheap faith that hoards God.

No religion knows absolute truth.

Are we to burn in hellfire because

of stories in a book?