By Ola Vincent Omotade
A river by the altar stone,
where babies are burned to God.
It's crying and soaked with curdled rain of iniquity, distil water hammered it down
its pissing off down to mud,becoming dirty
fondled with ravaging lust, immorality and wickedness.
So who is going to revive the altar?
Who is going to born his man child as sacrifice?
Altar drowned into darkness,
Deepening into crest, heavy dirtyness
who is going to tell it to come up hither ?
Believers need to groan with deep tears ,
And chant master, rabbi, recipe our altars,
Fill in us bullets, the scriptures,
And let us get into the realities of your sculpture.
Then we can grow into the ordination and the measure of he who came and fulfill, the we can be cracked in to his STRUCTURE
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