The Intrinsic hertitage value of Faith
Within the dust of bones and temple stones,
A whisper walks—more felt than clearly shown.
Not blood nor birth, nor lineage laced with gold,
But trembling trust the ancient prophets hold.
What weight has faith, that it should stretch through time,
And echo in the silent church-bell’s chime?
What proof resides in relics made of air,
But that the unseen realm is always there?
Not carved in granite, nor in laws decreed,
It pulses where the doubting heart still bleeds.
A feather's fall, a burning bush alight,
Both artifacts and oracles of might.
O Reason, halt! You cannot net the skies,
Nor chart the tears that saints and martyrs cry.
Their blood writes scrolls no scholar dares erase,
Yet wisdom bows before a child’s grace.
Faith is the coin of realms beyond decay—
A timeless barter in a time-bound play.
Inheritance not claimed by flesh or name,
But by the soul that steps into the flame.
Oft questioned, tested, ridiculed, denied,
It sleeps in caves where ancient truths abide.
Yet in the meek, it moves with royal breath,
And grants the pauper victory over death.
So let no tongue deride this ghostly trust,
This jeweled ash that rises from the dust.
For faith, though frail in eye or scholar’s pen,
Is heritage the stars still reckon in.
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