A story book their ingenious invention,
written with dishonest intention,
Penned by scribes with trembling quills,
To carve out myths and codify wills,
A patchwork text of borrowed, made up lore,
Bound to man an enthrall, to preach, implore.
Not a single voice divine, nor a holy pen,
But the schemes of greed, ******* by power-hungry men.
Written by the minority they cleverly invent,
for the majority their ambitious intent,
Chosen by those who claim divine favor,
A gift to the few, the masses enslaver.
A God who needs commandments penned?
A deity whose truths must transcend?
To laws of war, to their tribal gain,
A heavenly writ with mortal stain.
Two animals, or was it fourteen?
Forty days, or was it fifteen?
Contradictions ripple, yet they declare,
"The word of God!"—their iron lair,
For it's their word and their holy plea,
but a claim of man their divine decree.
Centuries passed; the scrolls were stitched,
By priests and kings, their ambitions enriched.
To conquer lands, minds, to quell dissent,
On faith's frail wings, empires were bent.
The Gospels, ghostwritten
then passed through hands,
Not disciples' truth, but shifting sands.
700 years later...
Paul's letters forged to fit the mold,
A tale retold, for power sold.
Oh, sacred book, still the world’s best-seller,
A golden cage for man, a truth-jailer.
A labyrinth of fear, of sin, of shame,
Man’s grand invention in God's name.
So hail the Bible, a text of man,
A masterstroke, a cunning plan.
Not divine, but deeply flawed
A monument to man ambitions,
not God.
Copyright Malcolm Gladwin
October 2024
The book of man
