Paul
In the dust of Thessalonica’s street
where sandals scuffed the stones
and rumor of the sky splitting open
hung like thunder not yet born,
Paul stood—
tentmaker’s hands still smelling
of leather and labor,
thread pulled tight through hide
as through the conscience of men.
Some had folded their arms to the sun,
waiting for trumpets,
for clouds to blossom with fire,
for the Lord to descend
before supper.
But the ovens cooled.
The nets lay slack by the shore.
Bread thinned on the tables
of those who still rose
with morning’s ache.
And Paul wrote—
Not with cruelty,
not with a clenched fist,
but with the stern mercy
of one who knows
how hunger humbles a man.
“If one will not work,
neither shall he eat.”
Not for the broken hand,
not for the widow’s trembling bowl,
not for the child whose ribs
count the days—
but for the idle heart
that borrows breath
and gives no song in return.
For faith is no hammock.
Hope is no excuse
to sleep through the harvest.
He stitched the tents.
He bore the scars.
He preached with calloused palms—
that waiting for heaven
does not excuse
neglecting the earth.
And somewhere between
the needle and the Word,
between hunger and grace,
Paul taught them
that love
is the greatest of works.
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