Disappointment rained down on Rutherford
like a stickbombed cowpat;
the Octochrist had been a complete fiasco.
Pews lay desecrated amongst disembowelled parishoners;
through gaps in stained glass he heard the whoop of sirens,
shrieks and hosannas and the tickertape of gunfire.
His new-minted hymns spread unsung across pavements,
soaking up blood,
while on the hill behind the city,
carpenters finished a cross like a shoetree.