We the church, the sinning saints,
Drape our Lord in purple spun,
All the while mocking him,
Scourging him with forty-less-one.
Churchy folks, we crown our King,
Not with gold, but thorns so long,
Every time we glibly sin,
Thorns press deeper with each wrong.
Praises, sing we Sunday morn,
Glorify our gracious Lord.
What? Our jeweled watches say
Sizzler’s waiting line’s now formed.
Preacher closes, audience lost,
Time for empty smiles has come,
Hurried handshakes, complements,
This week’s obligation gone.
Downward cycle, one more turn;
Vane religion crucifies
Once again the suffering Savior
With a shroud of holy lies.