Gods on Trial
He's a prick if he's all-powerful,
Omnipotence shouldn't need applause.
He's a coward if he's all-knowing,
Watching suffering like a spectator sport.
Omnipotence shouldn't need applause.
He's a coward if he's all-knowing,
Watching suffering like a spectator sport.
He's ignorant if we're his children,
For what parent refuses to shelter their own?
If kindness crowns him king,
Why does mercy tremble at his feet?
If unconditional love floods his heart,
Why watch us burn for small deceits?
If he's truly just then why the mess?
Why children starving while he blesses the blessed?
They claim he knows each future choice,
Each whispered thought, each stifled voice.
Then why demand we worship him?
Why get offended when our faith grows dim?
An all-knowing God can't feel surprise,
But tantrums when we question lies?
If he pulls strings, he's not sublime
Just bored, divine on borrowed time.
A puppeteer with trembling hands,
Who can't control what he demands.
He makes the rules, then rigs the test
Then blames the ones who fail the quest.
They say he loves but love that screams
"Obey or burn!" is love of schemes.
For if a voice is truly holy
It wouldn't be shaken by a doubter's flame.
Truth doesn't beg, it doesn't threaten spine,
It doesn't curse the non-believer's name.
It doesn't curse the non-believer's name.
And saints in white repeat his lines,
Like actors trapped in cryptic times.
Pretending to offer aid to the souls forlorn,
They're empires built on grief we're taught to mourn
With a holy choir that's built on fear
Of disappointing one who is not here.
Of disappointing one who is not here.
For if he's real then let him speak,
Not whispers sent through prophets weak,
Not symbols carved in ancient stone,
Not rules by men who claim his throne.
Let him appear in flesh or flame,
And sign his work and stake his name.
But the silence tells a louder truth,
It reveals the flaw behind the law
That control which begs to be obeyed
Is not divine, it's just afraid.
And the throne is dust, the crown is air,
A myth worn out from too much wear.
There's no invisible tyrant, no cosmic voyeur,
No sky fascist charting every thought.
We walk unruled, unowned, unknown,
And we shall live for we are to die alone.
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