Advent: Day Six

Psalm 115

Forging silver, hammering out
the hollow hands of gods.
Melting down our precious gold,
removed from the dainty boxes

that sing to us simple songs
of praise, power, and possession
when the wooden tops are lifted off.
Hold the hands of our idols above

the hot, half-melted, viscous gold
and then dip them to declare them
holy. But these idols, they are dead,
they have mouths but they never speak truth,

these idols have eyes that never see.
Ears but pridefully they won't hear,
Noses pierced but useless to the
building aroma of their own burning stench.

Laziness concretes their listless feet,
as they have ability but never walk.
And as the vanity hardens on their hands,
it is sealed that they will never feel.

These gods we cast in metals bright,
the next metaphor for our stiff necks.
But this is direct, we no longer build idols
from the clay, the sticks, or the dust,

no, the modern idols are us.