Help, Lord— the faithful vanish like embers dying, Each honest voice snuffed out by night. Men wink and weave their honeyed lying— "Our lips are ours—who'll check our right?" God rises— "Now I'll arm the weak, Lift the gasping from the mire. My words are silver, seven times sleek, Kiln-fired truth—a pure wire." The wicked strut on greasy applause, Vile boasts thick as city smog. But God's pure breath will flay their cause— Each lie dissolves beneath His cog. You keep us like a minted vow, Though this age reeks with counterfeit. The poor He guards—then, now— His yes outlives the dark's permit.
