Poetry: The Prophet's Cry

In the solemn silence of the Most High I knelt down in silent meditation My prayer I hope to mutter Then suddenly, my heart’s cry gushed out. When I beheld the body of Christ Wandering in the canopies of the earth Searching for satisfaction in naught, Like the proverbial ostrich This like a burning hot iron Breaks my heart in cold blood And I cry, I cry, I cry hard with tears Then I call; I call with zeal God’s people back home Yet they will not listen. When I see them further Clothed in sanctimonious piety, Yet drunk with the trademark booze of theology I crumble in total fear. I cried hard and called Come home, you wanderers Church of God, wake up from your sleep, But, but they will not hear With ears hard shut with deaf brand glue, they go. O Lord, come quickly and save your people Blow once again your fresh wind of revival Before emptiness feels the air like my grandma’s empty pot. With grief my heart trembles In shame my face ashen Come oh Lord, come quickly Come oh Lord and give us, A new revival tide.