His feet are rotting
From a slow gangrene;
His tusks are yellow
And his eyes are green.
But the church of god
Calls him sweet and clean.
His flesh is livid
With copper-hued sores.
He ravishes lads
And he sleeps with whores.
But the church of god
Lets him in her doors.
His eyes are founts
Of greed, hate, lust;
And he killed high freedom
With a quick, cold thrust.
But the church of god
Has declared him just.
O church of god,
Where the great hymns roar,
Is that the man, Jesus,
Going from your door?
Is he going to make room
For your red saint, War?
