Relighting Presbyterian roots,
God’s forest-fire convolutes…
contentious times burn heterodox.
The catholic cuckoos make their round—
strange fire and popery abound;
Deus Ex Machina winds the clocks.
Let all attend the holy skirl,
an armored tartaned highland whirl
escaping from God’s music box:
a blare of sixteenth-century pipes.
unleashes types on antitypes.
Pure Calvinistic grace unlocks
the portal’s gate—and, opening wide,
the frightened worldlings peer inside
beholding heaven’s equinox.
We chasten the imploding West
for Bloody Mary’s crimes confessed
(upon the Catholic queen a pox)
but praise the captain of the Kirk
for interplanetary work.
(His enterprising doctrine rocks.)