If man mirrors God,
then God stands accused.
His premise, His law, His court.
If justice is divine,
Xenophanes warned:
every beast draws its gods in its own shape—
horses with hooves, lions with claws.
Man drew one with hands—and blood on them.
This God smites cities,
hardens hearts,
drowns the world,
and calls it love.
He builds freedom,
then punishes those who use it.
An architect blaming the bricks.
Job takes the stand.
He asks why the innocent suffer.
The sky roars back:
“Where were you when I made the earth?”
Power answers with thunder.
Job bows.
God wins.
Morality loses.
Feuerbach strips the mask:
the divine is man’s reflection,
his virtues turned skyward,
his ego crowned eternal.
Loving when obeyed,
merciful when praised,
jealous when ignored.
The mirror never left our hands.
Camus lights a cigarette:
“I will not accept this world,
though it may be ruled by God.”
The absurd isn’t man’s crime
but God’s silence.
If He exists, He must answer.
If not, man walks alone.
Either way, worship ends.
If cows had gods,
they’d have horns.
Man’s wears a halo.
The sin isn’t disbelief—
it’s failing to judge heaven
by the laws it wrote for earth.
The day we do,
the divine will grow up—
or vanish.