The Illusion of Divinity.


The Illusion of Divinity

The chariot thinks, “I am divine,”
Its wheels roll proud on a sacred line.
With painted form and gilded grace,
It moves as though to take God’s place.

The idol stands in silent pride,
“I am divine,” it claims inside.
Crowned with jewels in a shining shrine,
Glistening bright, it feels just fine.

The priest believes he's truly wise,
Clothed in holy, ceremonious guise.
He proclaims, “Come unto me for grace,
For I alone hold God's own place.”
In sacred robes, with solemn pace,
He walks as master of the hallowed space.

But in the crowd, a poor soul stood,
Silent, humble, pure in heart and mood.
He softly prayed to the True Divine,
“Oh God, please come, and truly shine.”

Hearing this, the True God laughed,
So soft, so wise—a golden craft.
Then gently rose in radiant light,
Like stars that pierce the endless night.


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