Blessed Are
Blessed are the poor in spirit, they say,
But the world kicks them down every day.
Crowns of hope crushed beneath gilded shoes,
While rulers feast and pick and choose.
Blessed are those who mourn in the night,
Yet no hand comforts, no eyes catch the sight.
Tears mix with ash on streets that burn,
While the powerful whisper, “Nothing to learn.”
Blessed are the meek, the patient, the still,
Yet the meek are crushed by the tyrant’s will.
Voices silenced, courage unseen,
While the arrogant dance, corrupt and obscene.
Blessed are those who hunger for right,
But the tables are empty, wells dry as night.
Justice is mocked in gilded halls,
While lies crawl and whisper along the walls.
Blessed are the merciful, tender, and kind,
Yet mercy is scorned, crushed, maligned.
Forgiveness is twisted into weakness and shame,
And love itself becomes a political game.
Blessed are the pure in heart, the soul’s sacred part,
Yet purity’s hunted, mocked from the start.
Their light drowned in oceans of corruption,
Their simple faith facing constant disruption.
Blessed are the peacemakers, the bridges they build,
Yet the world crowns warmongers, blood-spilled.
Peace called naive, compassion a crime,
While hatred runs rampant, unchecked in time.
Blessed are the persecuted, the ones who dare,
For they inherit a kingdom beyond despair.
Though chains bite, lashes fall, and the world will jeer,
The crown waits for the steadfast, the brave, the clear.
And Jesus would rage if he walked today,
Through cathedrals of gold, while the children decay.
He’d flip their tables, kick out the priests,
Mock their rituals, expose their feasts.
Love for the poor, the broken, the lost,
Trampled for power, no matter the cost.
Copyright © Sarah Moncada | Year Posted 2025
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