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Their dumped along the coastline on a silent East trade wind, |
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Then appearing if by magic, in freight-lined bins, |
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From labor market hell, straight to well-worn shelves, |
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Would Jesus shop at Wal-Mart if the crosses were on sale? |
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Things upon blessed things, |
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In idolatry where death is worshiped, |
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Cash cured sins, in this fetish of the object holy, |
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Still you put your love in idols built by mortal man, |
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Now what did God say in that old testament? |
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And what about those workers, in exotic China-land? |
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They have your daddy's job, and you're next on the corporate outsource plan... as serfs born to serve your Lord in command, |
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"Now our border's the place where the grace of Christ ends, |
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It does not apply to those heathen abroad, |
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As long as they slave, I'll have them to thank - |
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It's more cash in hand to spend at the mall", |
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Woe to the children of God! |
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O Suffer thy misguided ways! |
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...you've sold your human essence to the cold world of dead and empty things... |
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You're sold. |
