Smited for convictions, some false and some true,
Plagues full of boils and festering ooze,
Bellowing smoke and red hot eruptions,
Gutted and cleaned and dressed for consumption.

Hail from the heavens and frogs in the dark,
First born sons and crimes of the heart,
Raging rouge waves from the briny abyss,
Boiled in the blood to cleanse their remiss.

Timid and scorned, inadequate and maimed,
Seraphs from on  high still playing the game,
Temporal weapons and blades of hot steel,
Charred skin, crispy, before him they kneel.

His apostles, they are, with hooks on their staffs,
Sometimes they cry but mostly they laugh.
Gathering those who appear on the scrolls,
God's love of His people or population control.