Are christians afraid God might make the wrong decision if they don't constantly remind him of who to burn?

Saint Peter stood guard at the golden gate,

With a solum mein and an air sedate,

When up to the top of the golden stair,

A man and a women ascended there.

Applied for admission they came and stood,

Before Saint Peter so great and good.



In hopes the city of peace to win,

Asked Saint Peter to let them in.

The woman was little and lank and lean,

With a scraggy beardlet on her chin.





The man was short and thick and stout,

And his stomach was built so it rounded out,

His face was pleasant and all the while,

He wore an honest, genial smile.





The choir in the distance, the echoes awake,

The man kept still while the woman spoke.

Oh the grandest, the golden gate she said,

We two come hither beseeching thee,

To let us enter the Heavenly land,

And play on harps with the Angel Band.

Of me Saint Peter there isn't a doubt,

There's nothing in Heaven can bar me out.





I've been to the meetings, three times a week,

And almost always I rise and speak.

I've told the sinners about the day,

They would repent of their evil way.

I've told my neighbours, I've told them all,

About Adam and Eve, and their primal fall.

I've marked their faith in duty clear,

Laid out their plans for their whole career.

So good Saint Peter, you can plainly see,

That the Gate of Heaven is open to me.





But my old man, I regret to say,

Haven't walked exactly the narrow way.

He smokes and swears and grave faults he's got,

So I don't know whether he'll pass or not.

He never would pray with an honest vim,

Or go to revivals or join in a hymn,

So I had to leave him in sorrow there,

While I with the chosen united in prayer.



He ate what the pantry chose to afford,

While I in my purity, sang to the Lord.

And then if cucumbers were all that he got,

There's a chance if he merited them or not.

But of Saint Pete, I love him so,

To the pleasures of Heaven, please let him go.

I've been enough of the Saint, I've been,

Now won't that atone, can't you let him in.



By my grim gospel, I know it is so,

The unrepented must fry below,

But isn't there some way you can see,

To let him in who is dear to me.

It's a narrow gospel by which I pray,

But the chosen expect to find some way,

Of coaxing or bribing or fooling you,

So their relations can amble through,

And Saint Peter my sight is dimmed,

I don't like the way your whiskers are trimmed.



They are cut too narrow and outward tossed,

They would look much better cut straight across.

So we must be going, our crowns to win,

Now open Saint Peter and we`ll pass in.

Saint Peter stood still and stroked his staff,

In spite of his office, he had to laugh.

Then he said with a fire agleam in his eye,

Who`s tending this gate you or I.



He then arose in a stature tall,

And pressed a button upon the wall,

He said to the Imp that answered the bell,

Escort this Women down to Hell.

The man stood as a piece of stone,

Sadly, gloomily there alone.

One life lone settled he had,

That his wife was good while he was bad,

So if she had to go to regions dim,

There wasn't a ghost of a show for him.





Slowly he turned by habit bent,

To follow that women where ever she went,

Saint Peter standing on duty there,

Observed the top of his head was bare,

And calling the gentlemen back he said,

Say friend how long have you been wed?

Thirty years said the man with a sigh,

And then he thoughtfully added, why.



Saint Peter first looked up, then down,

Then he raised his head and scratched his crown,

And seeming a different thought to take,

Slowly half to himself he spoke.

Thirty years with that woman there

No wonder the man hasn't any hair.

Swearing is wicked and smoking isn't good,

He smoked and he swore, I should say he would.

Thirty years with a tongue so sharp,

Angel Gabriel, bring him a harp.



Bring him a harp with golden strings,

Good sir, pass in, while the angels sing,

Gabriel gave him a seat alone,

One with a cushion near the throne.

See that on the finest aroma he feeds,

He`s had about all the hell he needs,

It wouldn't be just the right thing to do.

To roast him on earth and the future to,

So they gave him a robe with glittering wings,

And a jewel harp with golden strings.



He said as he entered the realm of day,

Well this beats cucumbers any way.

And so the scripture came to pass,

That the last shall be first,

And the first shall be last.Are christians afraid God might make the wrong decision if they don't constantly remind him of who to burn?
When people are trying to tell God what to do, can they really be called christians?

A true Christian has the real understanding of what it is to be a Christian, (ie; the way of the Father [God] with his children), not what is currently ascribed to being christian.

Most so called christians are nothing more than legallistic bible thumpers, and are not children of God, some ignorantly, and some intentionally.Are christians afraid God might make the wrong decision if they don't constantly remind him of who to burn?
Put down the crack pipe and go to bed. Willya?
Hayden,



dont copy a song, poem ask your ?

God is not in need of reminders, He is wanting your salvation
no ones burning on my watch
I've never asked God to let anyone burn.
The poem is entertaining. In fact, it was fun to read, but such writings are for musing and fun, however it shouldn't be taken seriously especially to be a base or standard to measure others by. It is a means for reflection, to better oneself, to make personal gains in spiritual development.