The Oracle Of Song

The Oracle of Song

The Rebel with a Chorus

A Poetic vision.

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“A prophet is honored everywhere…

Except at home.” – Jesus

(Mark 6:4)

I. Prologue in Minor Key

He tuned his lyre with trembling hands,

Wrote psalms for ears that buried bands.

His voice was oil on ancient strings,

Yet silence crowned him king of kings.

Among his kin, he stood unknown,

A bard rejected by his own.

Not for pride, nor for acclaim—

But to lift the God in whom he came.

II. The City of the Blind

A city bloomed in twilight’s breath,

Its people blind from birth to death.

Their king had one good eye to see—

Enough to rule. Enough to decree.

Then came a man with vision two,

Who saw the sky not just as blue,

But shifting spectrums, signs and truths—

A map for babes, a guide for youths.

But the people turned from what he showed:

“This isn’t how our father’s strode!”

And the one-eyed king with trembling heart,

Feared light might tear his world apart.

So he dimmed the songs and dulled the hue,

And told the crowd: “He lies to you.”

Thus, the man of two-eyed sight

Was swallowed whole by man-made night.

III. Daylight Robbery

“These people read,” the singer cried,

“Yet still in chains, they march with pride.

Their minds are yoked by chants and robes—

They chase the wind and call it ‘globes.’

Religion is illusion black—

While magic’s made for paler track.

The same deceit, the same old game:

Just one wears white, the other flame.”

“They love their jailers, kiss the chain,

And curse the man who points at pain.

They cry, ‘Anointed! Touch him not!’

But God’s within, not bought or taught.”

IV. The Woman of the Cloak

A woman rose with zeal and heat,

Her faith displayed from head to feet.

“My husband speaks—I scarcely hear.

But when my pastor calls, I cheer!”

Her man, a craftsman, wise and meek,

Now wept outside week after week.

The Oracle shook his head and sighed:

“You serve the robe while love has died.”

“God is not far. He’s not ‘out there.’

He dwells in silence, breath, and prayer.

Not in a voice from mountain skies,

But in your heart and in your cries.

Even that, you scarcely listen to.”

V. The Musician’s Lament

“Oh hear me, friends,” the Oracle pled,

“Not for my sake, but Truth instead.

I love my God, I love you still—

All I seek is the Father’s will.”

“But prophets speak in fragments torn—

They preach what little they have borne.

They say, ‘Jesus is Lord!’—and true—

But have you searched to see it through?”

“For the Bereans, keen and wise,

Searched Scripture with discerning eyes.

Not like Thessalonica’s crowd,

Who clapped at noise and cried aloud.”

“But you… you love familiar roads,

Inherited, well-walked abodes.

You mock my songs, my thoughts, my way,

And laugh at truths you fear to weigh.”

VI. The Prophet Bows

“Well, God knows I’ve tried,” he sighed.

“I sang, I danced, I laughed, I cried.

But I’m just the messenger—not the Word.

Just the whistle—not the bird.”

“True freedom lies in what you choose—

Not in the priests you dare not lose.

I only hope you wake and see—

That mystics thrive on secrecy.”

“For religion binds with holy rope,

While hiding keys to wider hope.

You must decide: to serve or see,

To think or kneel in mystery.”

VII. Jesus Weeps Again

“Jerusalem, Jerusalem…

You who kill the prophets and stone those sent to you—

How often I have longed to gather your children together,

As a hen gathers her chicks beneath her wings,

But you were not willing.”

VIII. Epilogue: Blind Confession

And then they said, “We see, we know—

We’ve walked this path, we’ve felt the glow.”

But Heaven wept and whispered low:

“If you were blind, you’d bear no blame—

But you claim sight. And thus remain.”

— (John 9:41)

In truth and tune, Olaife.