The Modernist Preacher

He was an ordained minister,
But modern in his views,
He preached his fancy doctrine
To people in the pews.

He would not hurt their feelings,
What'er the cost would be,
But their smiles and friendship
And compliments sought he.

His church was filled with wicked souls
That should be saved from sin,
But never once he showed the way,
Or tried a soul to win.

He preached about the lovely birds
That twitter in the trees
The babbling of the running brooks,
The murm'ring of the seas.

He quoted fancy poetry
That tickled list'ning ears;
When sorrow came to some,
He tried to laugh away their tears.

His smooth and slippery sermons
Made the people slide to hell
The harm he did by preaching
Goes beyond what we can tell.

He took our Holy Bible,
And preached it full of holes,
The Virgin Birth, said he,
Can't be believed by honest souls.

The miracles of Jesus
And the resurrection tale
For educated one like us,
Today cannot avail.

We're living in an age, said he,
When wisdom rules and reigns,
When man's intelligence is great
And superstition wanes.

He said, we're all God's children
Who live upon this earth,
No message of salvation,
No need of second birth.

His coat was bought with money
That he had wrongly gained,
For through his lying sermons
His wealth he had obtained.

He was just like the soldiers
That watched at Jesus' grave,
For money in abundance,
To them, the people gave.

It was all theirs, by telling
What was a sinful lie ---
A resurrected Savior,
They too, were to deny.

The day at last had come
For the minister to die,
When to his congregation,
He had to say good-bye.

His form lay cold and lifeless,
His ministry was past,
His tongue with all its poison
Was hushed and stilled at last.

His funeral was grand,
He was lauded to the skies
They preached him into heaven
Where there are no good-byes.

Upon the lonely hill,
Underneath the shady trees,
His form was laid to rest
In the wisp'ring of the breeze.

A tombstone was erected
With the words; "He is at rest,
He's gone to heaven's glories
To live among the blest."

His body now is lifeless,
But Ah! His soul lives on,
He failed to enter in
Where they thought that he had gone.

The letters on the tombstone
Or that sermon some had heard,
Could not decide his destiny,
'Twas not the final word.

He still had God to deal with,
The One who knows the heart;
While others entered heaven,
He heard the word, "Depart".

He pauses for a moment
Upon the brink of hell;
He stares into a depth
Where he evermore will dwell.

He hears the cries and groanings
Of souls he had misled,
He recognizes faces
Among the screaming dead.

He sees departed deacons
Which he once highly praised,
Their fingers pointing at him
As they their voices raised:

"You stood behind the pulpit,
And lived in awful sin,
We took you for a saint,
But a serpent you have been."

Accusing cries -- he hears them.
"Ah! you have been to blame,
You led us into darkness
When you were seeking fame.

"You preached your deadly poison,
We thought you knew the way;
We fed and clothed you,
We even raised your pay.

"You've robbed us of a home
Where no tear-drops ever flow,
Where days are always fair
And the heavenly breezes blow,

"Where living streams are flowing,
And saints and angels sing,
Where every one is happy,
And Hallelujahs ring.

"We're in this place of torment,
From which no soul returns;
We hear the cry of lost ones,
We feel the searing burns;

"Give us a drop of water,
We're tortured in this flame,
You failed to preach salvation
To us through Jesus' name."

The preacher turns in horror,
He tries to leave the scene,
He knows the awful future
For every soul unclean.

But there he meets the devil,
Whom he had served so well,
He feels the demon powers,
They drag him into hell.

Throughout eternal ages
His groans, too, must be heard --
He, too, must suffer torment
He failed to heed God's Word.

He feels God's wrath upon him,
He hears the hot flames roar,
His doctrine now is different,
He ridicules no more."

The Baptist Challenge - May 1998