Beneath a sky of gilt, where clouds dissolve,
A gospel gleams, unshackled from the tree,
Its banners wave o’er progress to absolve,
Yet bleed no red for man’s eternity.

The cross, once rough with splintered, crimson grace,
Is smoothed to marble, cold, a mere design,
No thorns to pierce, no nails to hold in place,
A shepherd’s tale recast as sweet resign.

Through stained-glass dreams, the light refracts too wide,
A rainbow bends where once a sword held sway,
The sheep drift far, unmoored by tide or guide,
Their pastures bloom, yet wither in decay.

So fades the truth in liberalism’s gleam,
A Christless hymn—fair shell, no saving stream.