A Tempestuous Judgment, A Cleansing Storm
For context, see Philippians 2:12

7.17.07

There's a clatter in the cupboards,

Sustained by thunder rolling 'cross the deep,

And it's building, slowly mounting

As the darkening skies begin to weep—

We're motes of dust, not worth counting,

I reflect.  A storm is what sinners reap.

Lights are flashing in the distance,

Igniting clouds, briefly scorching the skies;

Electricity is shooting

Through open air before unblinking eyes,

And it's rapidly uprooting

All my deep beliefs and constructed lies.

In the cupboards, dishes rattle;

In my mind, pretension melts with each clash

Of the faceless sound and fury

That accompanies each soul-piercing flash.

Echoing plains, be my jury,

And if I am condemned, spare not the lash.

God, there's terror in your justice.

With the black skies, my eyes begin to tear;

While the cosmos are in order

And my body lies on this earthly tier,

I will quake at Heaven's border;

I will work out my salvation with fear

And trembling.