A clock without a craftsman

We've fallen victim
To crimes on which we cannot place our fingertips
They'll come to save us
They'll come to save us from ourselves

A jury of most ruthless intent could not pronounce our guilt
Yet we will not fall as the martyrs before us
Through the crossing the line thousands of times
The meaning of justice has tarnished

I once wrote of war in such a way as appalling as war itself
Though closer to truth than their tall tale counterparts
Destruction and death are far less acclaimed
Than convictions as weak as conflicting beliefs

Not apart from me
Writers of the past wrote of monsters
Unlike anything I have ever seen
Even in my dreams

You cannot take this from me

This hatred is the only remaining sanctuary
And its walls are crawling with devastation
The prisons are flooded and the churches have lost command

And when the priests wander through the streets demanding our trust
We will ask
Trust in what?
Trust in love?
Trust in God?

I'd say the maker made a filthy disguise of what He had in mind