The Zoo

If you think about it, the world is a natural park zoo, and has been since God breathed on the first faint form of life. The problem is one of God’s species on display has greatly elevated himself above his natural station and presumes himself to be the keeper of all the lesser (in his view) animals, and among that species is a sub-species, called Progressives, who believe themselves to be the curators and keepers of all creatures not themselves.



The Curator, let’s call him Zeus

The name is not to matter

Presides over a structure loose

As any old mad hatter

Like animals in any zoo

We tend to think it ours

We tend to think the sky is blue

And raindrops bring us flowers

But all the while the man in charge

Is keeping His eye on us

To see that things both small and large

Do not fall down upon us

We wander through our park-like days

While thinking we are masters

While God whose name we seldom praise

Prevents the worst disasters

Oh yes the park it sometimes floods

There’s hurricanes and rainstorms

And volcanoes and flowing muds

But when the zoo has brainstorms

The Curator is pleased to note

His charges climb the ladder

Like science and the right to vote

Or kicking a pig’s bladder

For God does love a sporting game

It’s what the park was made for

The game’s to know our God’s true name

That’s what the game is played for


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