we could talk about the Huguenot martyrs . . .
I hereby smite thee with my flower, you simpering Pelagian.
By the five petals of my predestinating tulip you shall wilt, wither and die. My TULIP flourishes, watered by the blood of martyrs, fertilized and flowering by God’s sovereign grace. Away with your merely human worldly wisdom. Christ cultivates a blooming garden of grace, and our Savior hallows the Augustinian fragrance flowing freely from this line of flight. It’s time to stop and smell the TULIPS !
Tremble and surrender, worldlings, before the eternal might of my gentle flower as it sings, blooming on a theological stalk, waving gently in the wind of liberty, a floral banner proclaiming freedom. Away with your works; out, out, and perish, you preachers of what cannot save. Give up, give in and praise the Lord of hosts for redeeming grace and unmerited favor.
This eternal flower must go forth conquering and to conquer. To hell with human potential, free will and progress falsely so-called. Blessed are the Antinomians, for they shall inherit the empty ruined tombs of Arminian theology.
You may cover the stench with a potpourri—
while you gag, as you finger your rosary.
or decayed pourriture?
(Other patrons might label it Popery.)
Though the tepidly Protestant matron
of a church that is stagnant and state-run
does not care about Luther,
We’ll bother to truth her
with Calvin or Knox as our patron.
Though the Vatican’s bottomless coffers
make some very un-Lutheran offers,
I would rather talk Tetzel
(with beer and a pretzel)
and drink with the rebels and scoffers.
We forget that the birth of the Kirk
was a vicious, un-Catholic work
One recalls Bloody Mary…
and Knox was no faerie.
His doctrine drove Satan berserk.
Many chairmen, deficient in wit
who on flimsy theologies sit
with no justification
reviling it more than a bit.
Barthelemy (in French: St. Bartholomew)
was unpleasant, as most of the martyrs knew
Roman Catholic correction
or violent deception?
In heaven, they’re getting the overview…
People gag, and then murmur the rosary
seeking solace in incense or potpourri
you must pardon my French
but this damnable stench
smells like nothing so much as like Popery.