Of course I'm a believing Christian.
Can't you see the sign
Humbly clutched in shaking fists
Astride this picket line?
"Bomb that wretched baby killer!"
That kind placard's mine.
Of course I dearly love to witness.
Can't you read the fine
Print taped on this bumper sticker
With the fish design?
Watch me tear the road apart
And tag the deed "divine."
Of course I am God's faithful servant.
Don't you know my views
Shining in bright neon
'Long the highway's asphalt pews?
(Though some may think me lacking
When it comes to dove tattoos)
Of course I love my fellow Christian.
Can't you read the ad
That shows how many bucks I gave
To help that orphaned lad?
How dare you fault my luxury
And say that I'm a cad!
You mustn't trust the billboards
Charging me with fleecing sheep.
Whoever penned those notices
Has got to be a creep.
I only shear the small ewe lambs
(When I can't get to sleep).
The Wanted poster's lying
When it labels me a fake.
Just ask dear Phil the wonders boy
Who dunked me in the lake.
(I think I saw him by the booth
That sells the funnel cake)
Some folks say I don't need a sign
If I will only do
The sorts of things God's Word
And Holy Spirit tell me to.
But how else can I know for sure
My message will get through?
I tried to buy a sign once
From a namesake they call Pete.
But he spat on my shiny coins
And called this chap a cheat.
He painted me a rabid wolf,
A stalker of fresh meat!
I can't believe he judged me
Just for tossing him a penny.
He's always seeing bright red flags
Where no one else sees many,
While the banner MY heart waves
Says "Flaws? I haven't any!"
I hate to watch him wow the crowds
That used to follow me.
(His shadow even shows me up
By healing them for free!)
Oh how I'd love to hang THAT sign
Upon my Christmas tree!
I just don't get those fishermen
Who do not care for signs.
It seems they're all tied in a bow
'Bout how their life aligns
With things like love and holiness,
Not postcards tacked to pines.
They feed the poor, they heal the sick,
They clothe the demonized.
They give the thirsty wholesome drink,
The lost they don't despise.
The shut-ins and the homeless folks
Are honored in their eyes.
It seems the signs that follow them
Are all they really need
To show the world they follow Christ,
And not some fancy creed
That's penned in magic marker
And paraded by a steed.
They tell me Jesus IS the sign
I'm seeking as I wallow,
So fret not over signs before
But draw the signs that follow,
Sticking to the Master's prints
So your words don't ring hollow.
I might just take their sound advice,
But then - I think again.
Perhaps they'll find I've tricked them all.
What signs might they wield then?
It's best I keep my profile low
And hide this poisoned pen
Until such time as sleep does fall.
Meanwhile I'll watch the skies.
I'm pretty sure He'll be a while.
Perhaps I'll close my eyes.
Some see sure signs of His return,
But I fear no surprise.
"Watch ye therefore: for ye know not when the master of the house cometh..." Mark 13:35 (KJV)
Mark 16:17-18, Luke 21:8-28 and Acts 8:18-24
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