When he saw the throng,
he climbed the mountain.
We followed just in case
he scattered gold dust on the wind.
He fingered dirt
with carpenter’s hands
and spoke:
Rich are desert dwellers,
bedouin hearts
with empty hands asking “Why?”
They shall dig cisterns in the sand
and rain will fall from blackened sky.
Blessed are the broken brave,
leaning into grief.
Tears will slake their thirst
and solace find them
at the end of their worst.
Glad are the fortunate few,
content with two loaves
and three perch.
They shall lift eyes to heaven
and own the earth.
Rich are sparrow spirits,
craning their necks
to swallow Light.
They shall be filled,
even at night.
Blessed are those who care.
Look, even now
the forlorn and forgotten
gather a thousand strong
to serve like grace-laden footmen.
Rich is the man who sees God
in the wilderness.
He is a spring.
Pitch your tent and plant your heart
where the olive and fig tree are flourishing.
Happy is the peacemaker.
He carries olive branch in hand
and a coal on his tongue.
Gladness covers him, robe-like,
though his feet have trod in dung.
Blessed are the crucified innocent
who spread their arms
to hold the world.
They will sail heaven’s seas
with their hearts unfurled.
