Fred Phelps died.
Not a surprise, really.
It happens to everybody.
But Fred’s death brings a kind of satisfaction, doesn’t it?
He really deserved to die.
That’s how it seems to me anyway.
Man, he was a hateful cuss.
Ironically, he’s who I think about when I hear the word:
I don’t think of myself.
I’m not as bad as Fred Phelps.
I can understand why God loves me.
Who could love a guy like that?
Jesus went to the cross for Fred Phelps.
No question that needed to be done.
And I can’t avoid the nagging truth that
…deep down in my heart where nobody can see
…I’m demonstrating my own brand of wickedness.
There are signs that read: “God hates everyone but me!”
But I’m smarter than Fred Phelps.
I’ll never hold up those signs in public.
Instead, I’ll beg God for mercy.
And rejoice in the atonement of Christ.
Because I’m every bit as hateful as Fred Phelps.
Plus, I’m too arrogant to show it!