In shadowed halls where once the sacred flame
Burned bright with truth from Calvary’s scarred tree,
A hollow creed now whispers out a name—
“Christianity”—yet Christ it will not see.

The Word, once living sword and guiding star,
Lies dusty on the shelf of quaint old lore;
They trade the Cross for comfort’s gilded bar,
And nail anew what love could not restore.

No thorn-crowned King, no blood-bought pardon here,
But gentle fables soft as morning mist—
A therapy of self, a smile austere,
Where sin is but a wound the world has kissed.

They build their temples tall with marble lies,
Proclaim a gospel sweetened, safe, and tame;
Yet heaven weeps, and hell in silence cries:
“This is no Christ—only His empty name.”

O wandering flock, return to Jordan’s stream!
Cling to the Rock that breaks the rebel will.
Let not the age’s dream supplant the dream
Of Him who died—and bids the dead live still.

Until all have heard the ancient, thunderous call—
The narrow way, the gate, the risen Lord—
Stand fast, ye faithful: let no counterfeit enthrall,
For it is the Church that wields the living sharpness of His sword—
The living Word that cuts through every lie,
Not the compromised, warm, white sepulchre kind
Of Christianity, but the fierce and true
That answers only to the voice of Christ,
And calls the dead to rise and live anew.