Their Table Is a Tomb

Reverend Ezekiel GravesEzekiel Graves, Promo

Romans 3:13

Romans three, thirteen.

“Their throat is an open grave; with their tongues they practice deceit. The poison of vipers is on their lips.”

I’ve seen your kind before, Anton.

Those who do not serve food—but fear.

Cloaked in bone-white linen and silence thick as blood,

You call it cuisine. I call it cruelty.

You arrange plates like altars, knives like scripture.

But there is no God in your kitchen.

Only control.

They say your meals reveal the truth.

But I’ve looked into the eyes of the men who tasted them,

And I saw only regret—truth drowned in bile, hope crushed between molars.

You don’t nourish. You dissect.

Course by course,

until nothing remains but trembling hands

and souls hollowed out like marrow from bone.

You think you’re an artist.

But even poison can be plated.

Even evil can be seasoned.

I remember when we stood side by side.

Victory behind us. Steel and scripture in hand.

But even then,

I never called you brother.

Because I’ve smelled death in your kitchen, felt the chill in your presence.

And I know this you never fed the hungry.

You fed the darkness within them.

You are no servant of justice.

No vessel of grace.

You are a curator of rot.

A butcher of the soul.

A man who laces delight with despair

and calls the sickness divine.

So now I do not come to taste.

I come to cleanse.

This ring is not your restaurant.

It is your reckoning.

You bring garnishes of cruelty?

I bring fire.

You bring a mind honed to manipulate?

I bring a Word sharpened to pierce.

You bring recipes built on fear?

I bring verses carved in flame.

Because I am not a man looking for a meal.

I am the hand that overturns the table.

And when your silver spoons fall silent?

When your blade dulls beneath my wrath?

You’ll remember what it feels like to be hungry.

Hungry for salvation.

Hungry for mercy.

Hungry for a God who no longer answers you.

No candles.

No bread broken in peace.

No wine to soften sorrow.

No benediction. No blessing. No breaking of fast.

Only fire.

Only ash.

Only judgment.

I see through the velvet of your voice, Anton.

Through the manners and Michelin madness.

You wear fear like perfume—

but even roses rot when the root is poisoned.

Romans three, thirteen.

It wasn’t just written about men like you.

It was written for men like you.

So when you taste my wrath,

choke on it.

It is the only truth you’ll ever swallow.

Amen.