Little King of Sorrows
Don't think he isn't on to you.
You not the mom I thought I knew,
These vicious lies you claim are true.
Although my savior sets me free,
You're quick to judge my life you see.
Playing God Self-righteously.
You thrive upon hypocracy.
Crooked path's you surely stroll.
A river of styxx you pay the toll.
If pearly gates remain your goal,
The Lord's rebuke must play a roll.
A magician and her rabbit.
You choke it as you grab it.
You claim the truth by habit.
But a back that's turned you stab it.
Sleight of hand, you thieve and steal.
Where they go, you don't reveal.
I don't fret, it's no bid deal.
Imagine how your God must feel.
Knowing well of how you sin.
You sell your soul to claim a win.
My torment sadly makes you grin.
To hurt my rep, you call 'All in'.
All you speak, the Angels hear,
You taunt and tease, then act in fear.
Progical son you don't revere.
He gifts you ease, you scorn him tear.
Wicked plots you do conspire.
The seeds I sow, you set afire.
My humble soul doth surely tire,
I dodge your stones upon this wire.
How dark this mind in which you dwell?
Tis more than words I hear you tell.
Who bid thee right my soul to sell?
You scream at me ' Go burn in hell'.
The guilt not found upon your face.
I walk in peace, you stalk and chase.
I run to God, you quicken pace.
I seek and end, you build a case.
No peace of mind, although you could.
Repent your ways, but never would.
Truth is light, God's way is good,
But you don't play like Christians should.
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Poet's Notes about The Poem
Comments about this poem (Conviction by Little King of Sorrows )
Ella Wheeler Wilcox
(5 November 1850 - 30 October 1919)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(27 October 1914 – 9 November 1953)
Alfred Lord Tennyson
(6 August 1809 – 6 October 1892)
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