Ichabod: A Lament

Mighty was the fallen!
The fire burned so bright,
But it will burn no more.
The city on the hill has crumbled:
The basket hides the light.
Love was sweet.
Love was strong.
Love is cold.
Love is gone.
The glory is departed.
Richness of the gospel,
Power of the Spirit,
Lost treasures.
Doctrine,
Law,
Pillars of the church.
Exulted,
Praised;
Not followed.
No.
Rich, you call yourselves:
Rich in truth,
Rich in righteousness.
But you are poor.
You choose your truth;
You do not see the greater truth.
You speak of truth,
You do not follow it.
Your righteousness will fail.
Are you so blind?
Wrapped in filthy garments,
Raiment of your own making,
You call them robes.
White robes.
But they are shredded;
They are putrid.
They will not save you.
You name yourself "Philippi"
But you are Sardis.
You say you are alive
But you are dead.
Fallen.
The glory is gone.
The church is no more.