Ice and Incense

In the hammering snow and brutal ice they gathered to make their stand, 
hoping to protect this street, these friends, this dream, this home, this land.
False warriors were all out in force in their fine play-acting garb;
state news rang out with lies and hate and snark and bile and barbs.

In some churches, pastors buried gospel and took Christ’s name in vain.
They had the choice to choose their way; they chose the path of Cain.
All through this land and many more, the holy Word is scorned 
and used to load the guns of war, the lamb of peace now horned.

You can’t love your neighbor as yourself but tear her from her child,
can’t say you love the stranger then expel him to the wild,
can’t follow paths of incense when in truth they’re really smoke,
can’t claim your fixing anything when all the things you broke

lie in pieces in the streets and shattered on the plain
and you rage at every living soul that goes against the grain
and your concept of the sacred law is the one the tyrant winks,
the one he changes night and day and every time he blinks.

Devil, loose your arrows with blessings from your king;
the rich are lining up in droves just to kiss the ring,
but there’s one man in a ballcap, one woman in a car,
a million folks in waking dreams, one wish upon a star,

one storm of conscience in the head, one tightening of the heart,
one roiling sense deep in the gut that we should play our part.
It might be on this winter road or in the voting booth,
but time has come to pay our debt to the bank of truth.

I sense the people will not quit,
sweet madness in their hearts.
I don’t know how the protest ends

but this is how it starts.

– Greg Blake Miller, January 28, 2026

Illustration by GBM, 2020.