Evil has pulled up his chair with wicked intent. He sits and waits with regal pride; And there is no room at his table for hope. The weak, dragged before him are captured in seats of bitter welcome.
He crowns himself. The greedy take their fill. And he fills them more and more with envy and with isolation; And there is no room at his table for love. He extends the invitation; widening and increasing corruption.
He jeers at the sound of restraint; the sound of something other. The feast is fatal-falsehoods. The gathered, choke them out and eat them again; There is no room at his table for truth. He holds bile under his tongue to spit deceptions word.
Evil stretches destruction-plans as a cloth; he lays it bare. He roars and strengthens himself in the devouring helpless guests. There is no room at his table for compassion. He crushes and laughs his desolation into plainer sight.
All evil does is seen. Yes. And all he has done has been seen. His table is over turned. Over thrown.
And O, there is another table. A table built for the fatherless. A table built of sacrifice. An altar place of meeting. And there is joy at this table. And there is hope and love and truth and compassion at this table. And there is room at this table, for you.