The fetid falseness of faith goes sinking down to men’s feet;
The stink of it sticks in their toes as their eyes glaze sickliest sweet.
And “Yea,” they say, “it is good, it is wholesome and holy and kind,”
While they take little steps to defeat who surrender the light of the mind.
“Our faith,” they say, “is a power that lifts us up into flight,”
But it’s only the lovers of reason who keep them safe from the night.
For faith cannot fashion an arrow, or furnish a fire for heat,
Nor fix an abode for winter, nor clothing, nor shoes for the feet.
Yea, faith is a knife and a cutting; it severs the mind from the real,
And nothing is left for the faithful but nothing turned into ideal.
Faith, men have too long adored you, have too long held you for good.
Now judgment comes man-wise upon you, who art naught but a darkened hood.
Yea, damned you are, Faith, you are blasted, the root of all evil are you,
And at last, when men trample you under, their feet will be clean and true!