Should God exist, in final days,
when Earth at last rolls to a stop
and trembles, ancient, tattered, stays
and all the graves are lifted up,
then I will come before your God
and, eyes without a blink, will stand.
My gaze will burn through his facade,
and He will shake in fear of Man.
And if he dares to damn the souls
of those without the faith he needs
without regard for lives so full
of light, I call it jealousy.
Then when the blinded grip of Fate
claws at my back, I will not go,
but glare into the very face
of God, and I will whisper, “No.”
“For who are You, that You judge me?
The Slaughterer of untouched youth,
the source of serpent, apple, greed—
all evil oozes from your wounds!”
“And who am I, that I should lie
stricken and mute before You? No!
I name you tyrant, genocide!
Into the jaws of Hell you go!”
So on that fabled final day,
I will not kneel before your Lord,
but speak my mind and have my say
and leave under my own accord.
Then with a sigh, He will collapse,
return to dust, and float away.
For robbed at last of thunderclaps,
your god will have no words to say.