The Scroll Of Signs Poem by Linus Kithinji Njeru

These signs were engraved and recorded in scrolls,
Yet we wait for the scroll to be read, and we are 'misled'.
The government makes laws that govern how we pray,
For the owners of synagogues enrich with sweat each day.
That they may steal not from the gullible throng,
While they chant their hymns, in profit's song.

A thin line 'twixt Faith and folly doth appear,
Tell me, do we have Faith, or are we driven by fear?
Yet still we insist, the state hath no say in our worship or creed,
Unless to arrest those whose fruits harm the land in need.

The stinging bird, fashioned by man's own hand,
Became a belief, spreading o'er the dry land.
It doth wage war with the Son, whom we adore,
These governments must shield synagogues evermore.

Haters of our faith do slay our kin,
Forcing us to recite their creed, or suffer sin.
Those who refuse, are persecuted, slain,
Radicals strike with blood, and wreak death and pain.
While missionaries' efforts grow and swell,
Their regimes fund the rebels, who bring us to hell.

It was all written, but we, in our pride,
With eyes blindfolded, refuse the signs supplied.
War declared, rumors spread of fate untold,
Yet the regime stands idle, too timid and cold.
Afraid of accusations, their hearts do freeze,
As we wait for the storm, brought forth by these.

Time runs short for what lies ahead,
Predictions fulfilled, the wheels of fate have sped.
The message was given, yet we failed to heed,
While others received, yet failed to conceive.
The harvest is ripe, and the machines doth hum,
All fall before the Maker—none shall overcome.

These signs were engraved and recorded in scrolls,
By mercy of the Maker, through the Son, we present our souls.
The dates were never given, only signs of war and strife,
Famine, hatred, and bloodshed mark our life.
When the bad harvest is gathered, cast to the fire,
The few who walk the narrow path shall not tire.

It is written, the few shall inherit the reward,
While the rest shall fight to quench the raging sword.
God, may the reader and I, through grace and might,
Be counted among the few, in Your eternal light.