War

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?