The Acolyte of Destruction

The church, no matter where you go,
To one church, 'tis a liberal snow
Of platitudes, and their one thing
They might get right, they get all wrong.
For, Arks must be carried on poles,
Ceremony a holy show.
And I go, not seeking sermon,
But rather my most holy bread,
And the acolyte proceeds not
Down the aisle at his hour.
No, he lights it yor the service.
For ceremony must be right.

Another church, speaks hour's long
Deep theology, talks too long;
And no liturgy do they have
But long winded sermons and dead
Anxiety in pews. Many seats filled.
And long winded, with many words
And hypocrites who love to curse;
One has no sermon, and no rites.
The other a long winded strife.
No song or bowing knee, showbread
Comes out with no splendid belief.
Just many words and no order.