Thunder

Oh, Lord, I am so sorry to be
such a son of thunder,
my blood boils at the tyranny
Your flock endures from
these clerical stones in the road,
who will not enter the way
or let anyone journey near
unless running over them at full speed.
When will you free us
from these prison guards
parading in your name,
piling up punishment
beyond the grave?

I could shout this from
every roof top
for miles and miles around,
if it would do any good.
I know this is not Your way
but alas,
 I still am a thunder cloud
on the horizon,
black and menacing,
I hope to bother You
so You cannot resist
the noise of this silent storm
rumbling indignation from below.