From the Poet

Dear Reader,

This poem is born from the urgent warning of Revelation 3 and the piercing insight of John W. Ritenbaugh: we have too often traded the pure nourishment of God’s Word for the world’s spiritual junk food. The love of money — not money itself — is the subtle root that feeds Laodicean complacency. True wealth can be a powerful tool in the hands of a faithful steward who uses it for the glory of our Triune God: feeding the hungry, supporting the gospel, and advancing His kingdom.

But the prosperity gospel is a demonic perversion — another gospel that the Apostle Paul warned must be accursed. It dresses greed in the language of faith, promises earthly crowns while robbing souls of the Cross, and leaves multitudes wretched, poor, blind, and naked while they feel rich.

If you have drifted into lukewarmness, hear Christ knocking today. Repent, return to your first love, and serve Him wholly — whether in abundance or in need. He remains faithful; His security for His own is sure. Let this be your awakening, not your condemnation.

May the Great Physician heal what the love of mammon has wounded.

In His service,

The Poet

We sipped the world’s sweet wine at ease,

And called the vintage rich and fine;

Our tables groaned with gilded feasts,

Yet starved the soul of bread and vine.

The love of money whispered low,

A golden calf in velvet guise;

Not money, but the lust for more—

This root of evils blinds our eyes.

One may possess great wealth with grace,

And steward all for Triune God—

To feed the poor, advance His work,

And spread the truth where feet have trod.

Yet false prophets arose and lied,

A demonic gospel, slick and bright:

“Faith brings wealth and health and ease—

Your best life now, by seed and sight!”

This wicked twist, this twisted word,

A false “gospel” born in hell’s own fire,

Feeds Laodicean hearts with lies,

Promising crowns while souls expire.

“No need of Thee,” our ledgers claimed,

As barns o’erflowed and hearts grew cold;

We bowed before prosperity’s throne,

And worshiped what our hands had framed.

No thunder shook the cushioned pew,

No altar flame demanded all;

We drifted soft on lukewarm seas,

Content to heed the siren’s call.

“Rich, increased,” the mirror lied,

In garments bright and eyes half-blind;

We judged our strength by what we owned,

While cancer gnawed the hidden mind.

The love of riches, deep and sly,

Spread tentacles through thought and deed;

It choked the Word, it quenched the cry,

And turned our zeal to withered seed.

Two masters called, we tried to serve

The self and God with equal art—

But hearts divided rot and split,

And scatter like dry leaves apart.

O wretched, naked, poor, and blind,

Though gold we clutched with fevered fist,

The Great Physician stands outside;

He knocks through every storm and trial—

“Repent, and let Me come inside.”

Arise, O Laodicean soul! Reject the lie of mammon’s priests,

Cling to the Cross—be hot, not least!