A Preacher at His Podium

A preacher at his podium, his hands stretched to the world,
the congregation's up in arms, his eyes begin to tear, as their hands begin to curl.

but his chin raises to level and he says, "I'll never preach to deceive...
...the truth I've told you today is not just a truth about me..."

"your love's not real", an accusation from the back,
as the sheep surround the shepherd and hatred scripts an attack.

Pictures of signs with "god hates fags" emblazoned in proud bigot fashion,
parade for this preacher's demise, while a minute back he preached compassion.

A quarrel over love seems the oddest of all,
where humanity stops running, takes its knees and crawls,

where 'A' group hates 'B' group and 'C' group just watches,
till 'B' group's extinct cause 'C's sentiment is toxic,

in that town I have a vision [of] a little girl that's on the edge,
she's taken up the outskirts she knows the downtown means death,

the masses gather at city hall to decide what will go through,
where they assemble in all things arrogant, where white cloaks are tried and true,

she's tasted the bitterness of a sick decaying soul,
a life of lies based on the worth elitists hold.

the clicks have deemed her 'outcast', and the leaders just lead to lead,
so there is no change when she cries at night, a reason, a want to be freed.

she's imprisoned by the freedom of those allowed to judge,
shackled by the impotence that names tolerance 'too much',

and her little head hangs as the crowds refuse acceptance,
and her little heart tears more cause her hope remains relentless,

her face screams a need for change,
her insides writhe but her outsides can't complain.

they say this preacher's different, and they've been right before,
they give her food, they give her shelter, who is she to ask for more?,

but the problem's no longer when the lynching begins,
the problem's at the pulpit when love becomes sin,

hatred is the bastard lover
of stoic prejudice in affluent cover

so who dares hope for change,
the hands of Iraq raised in fists for better days.

nonviolence yields this, the crumbled corruption of an institution,
from voices versed in silent protest the ancient tongue of revolution,

who will charge the gates of Hatred Estate,
and dethrone the powers that steal and rape,

where vocals float and bodies dance,
where people want change to change there's a chance,

that preacher, that day, didn't know the world was at his palms,
a world bred to be indifferent to the way complacency scalds,

from shanty town to senate house, from kenya to illinois,
from Tommy to Johnny to Sudan's lost boys,

one message, one hope, persists to bitter ends,
we are one race, we are one people, it is on us to make amends.