Dear Reader,

I write not from hatred, but from a heart heavy with alarm. In an age that flatters itself as enlightened, we have traded the ancient light of Christ for a glittering counterfeit. What parades as compassion and justice is, I believe, the oldest lie in new robes: the serpent’s whisper that power, not sin, defines us; that mercy is weakness; and that the “oppressor” must be crushed rather than redeemed.

This poem is a cry of warning. Progressivism, with its Critical Theory lens and oppressor/oppressed gospel, does not merely err—it inverts the Christian order. Where Scripture calls every soul fallen and redeemable, this ideology declares entire classes of people inherently guilty by birth. Where the Cross offers grace and persuasion, it demands rage and revolution. Where Christ says “love your enemies,” it teaches “by any means necessary.”

The bullet that silenced Charlie Kirk was not an anomaly but a logical fruit. When you paint your neighbor as evil incarnate, the moral path becomes elimination, not argument. I do not claim perfection for any political tribe—sin runs through us all—but I do claim this: the spirit now animating much of the modern Left is not progressive but regressive, a return to the ancient rebellion in Eden.

If these lines sting, let them. Let them drive you back to the Word, to prayer, and to the Lion of Judah who still roars that the gates of hell shall not prevail. Repentance remains possible. Truth still liberates. But only if we name the darkness for what it is.

With urgent concern and abiding hope in Christ,

The Poet

Genesis 3:1,4-5

Now the serpent was more subtil than any beast of the field which the LORD God had made. And he said unto the woman, Yea, hath God said, Ye shall not eat of every tree of the garden? … And the serpent said unto the woman, Ye shall not surely die: For God doth know that in the day ye eat thereof, then your eyes shall be opened, and ye shall be as gods, knowing good and evil.

Isaiah 5:20

Woe unto them that call evil good, and good evil; that put darkness for light, and light for darkness; that put bitter for sweet, and sweet for bitter!

2 Corinthians 11:14

And no marvel; for Satan himself is transformed into an angel of light.

Matthew 7:15

Beware of false prophets, which come to you in sheep’s clothing, but inwardly they are ravening wolves.

Matthew 11:28

Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.

Matthew 16:18

And I say also unto thee, That thou art Peter, and upon this rock I will build my church; and the gates of hell shall not prevail against it.

Matthew 5:44 (for the contrast with loving enemies)

But I say unto you, Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you, and persecute you;

In Eden’s hush the serpent spoke once more,

Not apple offered, but a poisoned creed:

“Oppressor, oppressed”—his ancient, iron law,

Dividing souls by blood, by skin, by seed.

No common fall in Adam’s guilty race,

But birthmarks branded: White and male accursed.

The Cross grows dim beneath this new disgrace—

For mercy weakens what pure power thirsts.

Thus Lucifer, in rainbow robes arrayed,

Preaches equity as heaven’s own decree.

“By any means,” his legions cry, unswayed,

“Burn cities down, punch Nazis, set them free!”

No erring brother here to win with grace,

But “literal Hitler,” fascist, mortal foe.

The bullet sings where sermons held their place—

For evil dies, and only blood can sow.

He twists the Book, perverts its every line:

“Love not thy foe, but crush the Philistine.”

The family fractures, gender bends divine,

The child laid bare on altars serpentine.

Envy wears justice like a stolen crown,

While borders tumble, Babel’s sin denied.

Truth becomes violence when it pulls them down,

And churches kneel where pride parades abide.

This is the Beast in scholar’s garb disguised,

False prophet rising with the dragon’s eyes.

It forges guilt from air, then hunts the wise,

Devouring remnant under smiling lies.

No cleansing blood, no weary soul finds rest,

But revolution’s endless, hungry night.

Where Christ says “Come,” the serpent hisses, “Rage—

And seize the throne that God would dare deny.”

Awake, O Church! The wolf has breached the fold,

In Critical Theory’s soft and treacherous fleece.

It slays the Kirk, it topples cross and gold,

And names the slaughter “progress”—sweet release.

Yet Heaven’s Lion thunders from His throne:

The gates of hell shall never overcome.

Repent this lie, this Satan dressed as dawn,

Or watch the West descend to Christless gloom.

For progress is but Eden’s fall reborn,

Repackaged, glittering, by millions worn.

The selfsame hiss: “Ye shall be gods in power,”

Devouring age on age, hour after hour.