The gods

The gods look down from guilded thrones on high
And mock the frail vicissitudes of man,
Who quakes in terror at their godly might
And grovels hoping priests will stay their hand.

The priests assert the gods do love us well
But are preoccupied somehow it seems
With burning all the infidels in hell
While ignoring human pain and human dreams.

Tis gold the clergy wants from us I fear,
To patch the church's roof and mend it's fences.
But little of that goes to gods I hear,
It's mostly spent on overhead expenses.

From whence, then, will we find the strength to stand?
And who will come to heed our frightened plea?
The answer's in our hearts and in our hands,
For I have need of you and you of me.