It is, perchance, the fault of scholars
Who abscond with truth:
Who reign with essay, tend with ink
The muddled moral sleuth.

There Christian pundits always are,
And by their regicide
Die one fair king, and that fair son
Who with mankind collide.

I speak, of course, of Jesus Christ,
His Father, God the Lord,
And all that reign, in heaven’s realm
By love and not the sword.

Yes, we have Michael the Destroyer
And Bartleby the Squire.
And Simon Peter, John of Patmos
And dozens from the fire.

But man has talent to, with skill, upend
The Word of Holy Life,
To take from him, his own sad soul
And marry it to strife.

How is it humankind enjoys its work
That at the first was naught?
They till the field, from dawn ’til dusk
With wanting as their lot.

Oh! I shall never understand you:
Men of God and earth.
You sully truth, and work against
The God-giv’d right of mirth.