They're dumped along the coastline on a silent East trade wind
Then appearing if by magic, in freight-lined bins
From labor market hell, straight to well-worn shelves
Would Jesus shop at Wal-Mart if the crosses were on sale?
Things upon blessed things
In idolatry where death is worshipped
Cash cured sins, in this fetish of the object holy
Still you put your love in idols built by mortal man
Now what did God say in that old testament?
And what about those workers, in exotic China-land?
They have your daddy's job, and you're next on the corporate outsource plan...as serfs born to serve your Lord in command
"Now our border's the place where the grace of Christ ends
It does not apply to those heathen abroad
As long as they slave, I'll have them to thank
It's more cash in hand to spend at the mall"
Woe to the children of God! Suffer thy misguided ways!
You've sold your human essence to the cold world of dead and empty things
You're sold
