Can you hear his voice, the muted sage?
Silenced by immaculate pew-sitters’ rage;
Angry that sages dare change the words
To liturgies oft spoken–but hardly heard.

Preaches the word to prune-pasted faces
Who long have forgotten other classes, races:
Seems pointless and fills the sage with sorrow
Wondering whether there really is hope for tomorrow.

They dishonor the sage with hateful words
Tossed about, whispered as if “no one has heard”;
These joyless worshippers who seem above judgment
Will they learn their salvation might be a presumption?

The fruit of their spirit: power, lust, hate, greed
Seeking their own way is their most trusted need;
Silent the cancer that eats at their souls
Who dares to convince them they are only fools?

So the sage lives on in silent hope
While emasculated pew-sitters gather their rope;
Will they choke out and silence the voice of love?
Can you hear the sage who speaks from above?