The poem is a stark warning against false teachers and hypocritical leaders who hide predatory motives behind religious appearances.

It paints the image of wolves dressed as gentle pastors who use Scripture, soft words, and promises of blessing to manipulate, guilt-trip, and financially exploit vulnerable believers. Beneath polished sermons and smiling faces lie greed, control, and spiritual abuse.

The true Shepherd (Christ) is contrasted with these impostors: He was the Lamb who was slain and still bears scars; the wolves only pretend to carry His marks while they devour the flock.

The urgent call is to the Church: wake up, test every spirit, and return to the authentic voice of the Good Shepherd. When pulpits are occupied by deceivers, genuine safety and guidance are found not in impressive buildings or charismatic leaders, but in personal intimacy with Jesus—alone with the Scriptures and the Holy Spirit, on your knees, listening for the One who knows and calls His sheep by name.

In short: Discern the wolves, reject the counterfeit, and cling only to the true Shepherd who keeps you close and speaks louder than the predators.

The sanctuary glows with stained-glass lies,
soft light on velvet pews,
while at the lectern stands the wolf
in starched collar, gentle voice,
quoting Scripture like a lullaby
to hush the trembling sheep.

He speaks of love with honeyed fangs,
promises heaven for a tithe,
teaches grace while counting coins
beneath the table with clawed feet.
His smile is Sunday-morning bright,
his eyes are midnight counting sheep
not for shepherding,
but for slaughter.

Beware the shepherd who smells of blood
yet wears the fleece of the flock he flees.
His gospel is a gilded trap,
his prayer a noose of pretty words.
He preys upon the widow’s mite,
devours the orphan’s cry,
and calls it ministry.

The true Lamb once was slain;
these wolves merely dress the part.
They howl in minor keys of guilt
and call the trembling “lost,”
then lead the flock to private pastures
where the grass is green with greed.

O Church, awake!
Your watchmen sleep with open mouths
and dreaming teeth.
Test every spirit, weigh each word
against the ancient plumb line
carved by nails into a tree.

When pulpits are full of wolves in sheep’s clothing,
the only safe place left
is on your knees,
not in their sanctuaries,
but in the wild,
where the Good Shepherd still calls
by name,
and knows His own
by scars.