Sometimes people ask what kind of emails we receive here at Mortification of Spin. Well, I have to say that we do have quite a smart bunch of readers. Some especially have a good sympathy and understanding of what Todd and I have to deal with over here. This is a gem from my new internet friend, Amy Mantravadi:
Between the Cotswolds and the Forest of Dean
Lies a city as damp as has ever been seen
Which raises up prophets, then sends them away
That on some unfortunate souls they might prey
First, there was Whitefield, sent off to the West
Then Packer, who with such fine knowledge was blessed
And lastly, as one so unnaturally born
The roses of Gloucester have sent us a thorn
That thorn in our flesh from Lucifer sent
Of his pride and conceit, he shall never repent
For he must gain his laughs, yes, he must have his way
For he won’t be content until he’s had his say
His head far too big, his frame none too tall,
His heart, we declare, is two sizes too small
Such a spirit as his, which can never be cowed
Would make even that tyrant Napoleon proud
Such a strange theologian! He’s not fit to dine
Where Anselm breaks the bread and Jerome pours the wine
Oh, why must this drivel he sells still be heard?
Or why should he live, to fill this world with words?
In his dreams, he is playing some gig with The Who
But when most hear of him, they can only say, “Who?”
“He’s that chap who slagged off those two guys that one time!”
“Oh him? He’s still living? I thought he had died.”
Congrats to you Oxbridge! Just look what you’ve done!
Yes, we liked Thomas Cranmer, but not so this one!
For if you won’t let Wycliffe rest well in his grave
Then how can you let off a man so depraved?
A man who lives always so far in the past
He cannot even tell when his moment has passed
And he fancies himself a cowboy in the West
An outlaw from justice who can’t be repressed
We bid him now follow the words of Owen
And hasten this hour to mortify sin
No, sir, you’re no Luther - except for the hair
Of your manifold faults, we are all quite aware
No, we still can’t believe that they pay you to teach
Much less, that some poor souls should pay you to preach!
To preside over such young, impressionable minds
Such a pity when blind men are leading the blind!
“How dare you succumb to the wages of spin?
How dare you abandon your creeds and your hymns?”
Yes, we heard you the first time – it all sounds the same
Let us send this foul immigrant back where he came!
For he takes foreign women and steals foreign jobs
And he loves foreign doctrines – just not foreign dogs
And before we all know it, we’ll soon sound like him
Like a cross between Sherlock and some Australian
Never before have we seen a case
So thoroughly leaning upon the Lord’s grace
Of his certain election, we might have our doubts
For so many commandments he would daily flout!
Yet, here in this instrument glory ignored
The light of God’s grace must shine through all the more
For if there’s hope for him, then there’s still hope for me
So to Gloucester, I suppose we must say, “We thank thee!”