The sweetest bud on the church’s rose,
Is Father Christian’s gin-blossom’d nose.
The GAFCON sneer, his righteous sight,
The crazed assurance that he is right.
Where lesser Priests doth fear to go,
Our Doctor Troll strikes sinners low.
Smiting with his subtle hands,
From Ichabod Springs, across all lands.
His Adsense links are sweet and true,
And generate much revenue;
While each day’s message causeth all to think,
Beneath his light, the mortal blink.
Viagravillains, full of bile,
Come by each day, and stay a while
Hoping that they might find on view
Sufficient libel for which to sue.
Yet never think that they will catch
This noble Priest beyond their match.
Each word he posts has been first checked
By a Council of Angels, in flowers bedecked.
His word is straight, if not his staff,
Sorting wheat from tares and chaff.
Indeed, his mind is never idle,
He’s Father Christian, and he teacheth the Bible.