The poem is a prophetic lament and rallying cry against the slow, deadly compromise that has overtaken much of the church in the face of secular culture.

It opens with the classic “frog in the kettle” image: Christians have grown so accustomed to gradual moral and theological erosion (soft language, fear of offense, accommodation to abortion, sexual revolution, and gender ideology) that they no longer notice they are being spiritually cooked to death. Instead of wielding the sharp sword of God’s Word, the church has muffled it with cushions, whispers, and qualifiers, rendering itself powerless and silent while evil advances.

Yet the tone sharply turns. The Lion of Judah is not tame or polite; He still roars, and His Word remains a hammer, not a sentimental relic. The blood of the martyrs calls not for retreat but for fresh courage.

The poem then becomes a direct summons:
Rise from the lukewarm bath, shake off the stupor, and reclaim biblical boldness. True love and true truth are inseparable; one without the other is either cowardice or cruelty. The church must again speak with fire about sin, righteousness, judgment, and the cross, refusing to lower the sails of conviction no matter how fiercely the cultural winds howl.

It closes with an unapologetic confession of Christ’s absolute lordship over every sphere of life (womb, marriage bed, gender, throne, chromosome, and heartbeat), and a defiant affirmation that though the world may curse and cancel, the Word of God stands forever.

In short: the poem mourns the church’s church’s slow suicide by compromise, remembers the untamed power of the gospel, and calls every believer to leap from the kettle into the roaring fire of faithful, costly, joyful obedience.

The frog in the kettle never felt the flame,
slow heat, soft words, the gentle hiss of shame.
“Tone it down,” they smiled, “don’t rock the narrowing boat,”
so the church learned to whisper what once shook Jericho’s throat.

We traded the sword of the Spirit for a cushion and sigh,
wrapped truth in wet blankets till the fire dared not fly.
Abortion was “complex,” marriage “evolving,” grace grew cheap,
while babies went silent and children were taught to leap
into rainbow-colored graves dug by judges in black,
and we nodded politely—God, forgive us our lack.

But the Lion of Judah is not house-trained or tame;
He roars through the ages and still calls sin by name.
The blood of the martyrs is seed, not museum dust;
the Word is a hammer, not a sentimental crust.

So rise, you watchmen, from the lukewarm bath,
shake off the stupor of culture’s slow wrath.
Let the sharp two-edged blade flash white in the sun;
love without truth is no love—truth without love is no gun.

We will speak of the holy with fire, not frost,
of the wrath and the mercy that met at the cross.
We will call every prodigal home through the dark,
and refuse to strike sail when the culture cries “Hark!”

For the gates of hell will not prevail, though they howl and they rave;
Christ has died, Christ is risen, Christ will bury the grave.
So plant both feet on the rock that the builders disowned,
and thunder again what the Spirit once moaned:

Jesus is Lord—
over womb, bed, and throne,
over chromosome, heartbeat, and marrow and bone.
And the world may curse, cancel, or cancel again,
but the Word stands forever.
Amen and amen.