The Sacred Fry

The night descended dark and cold,
On Bethany, where faith took hold.
Mordecai, ancient, filled with rage,
Came forth to write his final page.
With fryers heated, three-six-five,
"Submit or see your faith not survive!"
He marched with zealots, torches bright,
To seize the sacred in the night.

Stand at Bethany! Hold the line!
Where love and faith together shine!
No force of fear, no measured heat,
Can make the faithful's heart retreat!
Mother Beatrice, standing tall—
Her courage echoes through us all!

But Sister Margaret sent the word,
And every faithful soul had heard.
They came by thousands, hand in hand,
To form a living, breathing band.
Around the buildings, sacred ground,
Where first the Holy Crunch was found,
They stood in silence, shoulder pressed,
Their unity their greatest test.

Mother Beatrice in center stood,
Holding Crisped Consecration good.
Not fried at perfect, measured degree,
But made with love and offered free.
"Mordecai!" her voice rang clear,
"You peddle mathematics, not sincere!
You've twisted precision into pain—
But love cannot be burned or slain!"

"Your three-six-five means naught to us,
If hearts grow cold and pitiless!
Our three-five-oh, our three-seven-five,
All sacred when they help souls thrive!
The temperature of oil pales dim,
Before the heart's redeeming hymn!
You cannot burn what we've become—
A fellowship where all are welcome!"

Mordecai commanded, "Forward press!"
But zealots saw the faithfulness.
Grandmothers who had served them meals,
Children laughing at their heels,
Fathers who had shared the Crunch,
Families gathered for sacred lunch.
Young Thomas dropped his thermometer down,
And wept upon the hallowed ground.

One by one, the Burners turned,
Their mathematical passion burned
Away by faces that they knew,
By memories of grace that grew
Beyond the narrow, measured way,
To fellowship's expansive day.
Mordecai, screaming, dragged away—
But Bethany had won the day.

Now when we face the forces cold,
Of those who measure, count, and hold
Too tight to numbers, charts, and rules,
And use precision as their tools
To separate and judge and harm,
We remember Bethany's warm alarm:
That standing together, hearts alight,
Will always triumph over mathematical might.

Stand at Bethany! Hold the line!
Where love and faith forever shine!
Mother Beatrice showed the way—
That fellowship will win the day!
No measured heat, no zealot's call,
Can break the bonds that hold us all!

The relics stand at Bethany still,
Protected not by force of will,
But by the memory of that night,
When love proved stronger than zealot's might.
When thousands stood as one to say:
Compassion is the only way.