by W. Chaz Glass

 

The bed of Jezebel is a crowded infirmary,

Her stench to some is sweet.

Her bitter lips seem like honey;

Her words are slick.

Her eyes are pitch black,

Her hair tangled and matted.

Her skin is covered in oozing sores, blisters, and scabs.

Her bed is covered in insects drawn to filth –

Her sheets soiled,

Her mattress moldy.

Through her sickly voice she calls the foolish in the night of their spirit to lay with her;

Day never comes.

From her come children of death, inheriting her disease.

The prophetess and her seed preach lies to the nations,

Sowing tares among wheat.

Those who ignore the Shepherd’s voice come;

They defend her truth, and idolatrous vines multiply poisonous fruit.

Like Jezebel they will be eaten by dogs –

Nothing of them remaining to recognize.

Those who have an ear, let them hear!