It does not matter,
not now or in the end,
whether God means us well or ill,
For what wrath could God rain
that we have not already
poured on one another?
And what good could God wrest
from the clutches of the few
to bless the many?
Let the Savior spare Himself from the trouble
of coaxing and convincing — we are
already so long gone in the handbasket.
Let Wisdom save Her breath for that day
when the sun’s fires must be blown into a roar
to consume all that remains.
Why should we cling to hopes of a harvest
when the earth is yielding poison and
the springs overflow with toxins?
Is this your heart bleeding or is it mine,
and if we bleed out today or tomorrow —
why should God mind?
Take love for the bandaid that it is,
pretend that it makes things better,
and wait for God’s punishment.
on Zephaniah 1:12