Whose blood, Your wine, and flesh Your bread
Whose faith is, but Your artifice
Who yields to You, his every shred
For a fist of hope, and an ounce of bliss!

He bears Your kingdom, on his tomb
Your cherished fear, in sold-out soul
Whilst You incarnate, naïve aplomb
He sins whole day, to pay Your toll!

Unlike the ones, who have heart-to-heart
With You, o’er payouts of piety
This bloke’s broke soul, You tear apart
Who dreads to death, his dubiety!

How come, You’re sold in faith’s bazaars
Which faith You are, with a substance flawed
Who glorifies, Your bestowed scars
You are indeed, that Poor Man’s God!

© 2018 Vikas Chandra