Relighting Presbyterian roots,
God’s forest-fire convolutes…
contentious times burn heterodox.
The catholic cuckoos make their round—
strange fire and popery abound;
Deus Ex Machina winds the clocks.
Let all attend the holy skirl,
an armored tartaned highland whirl
escaping from God’s music box:
a blare of sixteenth-century pipes.
unleashes types on antitypes.
Pure Calvinistic grace unlocks
the portal’s gate—and, opening wide,
the frightened worldlings peer inside
beholding heaven’s equinox.
We chasten the imploding West
for ****** Mary’s crimes confessed
(upon the Catholic queen a pox)
but praise the captain of the Kirk
for interplanetary work.
His enterprising doctrine rocks.