Oh, the empty husks of grain,
separated from the mighty stalk;
are being tossed to and fro,
by the winds of wayward talk.
The chaff is but a barren skin,
covered in a lifeless shell;
and so it gathers on the wind,
those whom it can take to hell.
The grains of doubt grow wild,
and spreads like a searing fire;
testing the flames of hell,
with the blaze of man's desire.
The chaff breaks up the wheat,
by shifting the heart on the vine;
stirring up dissent with its lies,
and mixing water with the wine.
Don't get caught up in the winds,
where the truth is blown away;
lest you fall from His grace,
and be left behind one day.
For the winnowing fork is in His hand,
and there'll be threshing on the floor;
He'll gather His wheat up in the air,
and leave the chaff at hells door!
This poem was a finalist in the January 2011 poetry contest