In a little French village,
Near a meadow green;
A rock sculpture stands,
A wonder to be seen.

Tis' claimed by villagers,
That a miracle did appear;
A shape like a finger,
In clay hearts it struck fear.

The land suffered drought,
The crops could not yield;
So the villagers prayed,
For rain for their fields.

When rain did not fall,
To save flock and lands;
The feeling of hatred,
Would force evil hands.

In their state of sin,
They pointed at God;
Climbed top the mountain,
And spit on the sod.

That night clouds darkened,
The thunder did crash;
The countryside was flooded,
As lightening did flash.

Early the next morning,
As the sun beamed bright;
A shepherd boy gathered,
All the folk to the site.

The mountain was gone,
But standing in its place;
Was a giant rock finger,
Pointing right in their face.

The villagers were shocked,
Not one made a sound;
For God in rightful anger,
Had stood his ground.

The lesson of this story,
Is one that is true;
When you point at God,
He points back at you!

© Loyd C. Taylor