in his tabernacle.
through the small glass window,
across the white marble altar,
at his near empty church,
vacant pews as far as the eye could see.
“Where did I go wrong?”,
remembering past glories,
days of omniscience,
Full houses, full plates,
Glory days, the boom before the bust.
remembering the days,
when he turned his back,
on men and women
should always have meant,
abandoned by God,
not this empty church
uncaring, indifferent, silence.
against the injustice,
“Why this, why now, why Me?”
He heard his priests,
preaching masses to the diminishing few,
the tinkling of small coins on silver platters,
and, drawing himself up,
determined one last toss of the coin,
one last roll of the loaded dice.
A grand intervention to bring his people home,
to frighten them back to obedience,
to fill his churches like the days of yore.
A terrible pestilence would do it –
would bring them back in droves,
it worked before, was proven.
Yes – a second Egypt,
a plague upon all plagues.
in total isolation,
the last followers barred from his churches,
his priests cocooned,
removed from all,
harm and harming,
he knew then,
his days were numbered,
his divinity diminished.