In pulpits high, the sacred voice grows still,
A drowsy hymn to cloak the rising night,
Where once it thundered truth from hill to hill,
Now whispers bend to soothe the serpent’s plight.

The words, once sharp to pierce the shadowed veil,
Turn soft, a balm for souls that dread the cost,
From hallowed wood, they weave a gentler tale,
And righteousness lies buried in the frost.

The flock below, entranced by silken lies,
Drifts far from flames that prophets used to wield,
While evil grins beneath a preacher’s guise,
Its triumph sown in fields the Word once tilled.

Yet dawn may break this slumber’s tender hold,
If pulpits blaze anew with fire of old.