If I must sound a trumpet’s brash refrain,
Each time a kindness flows from hand to heart,
Does not this clamor steal, in prideful gain,
The dignity that mercy should impart?
A needy soul, so precious in His sight,
Deserves no fanfare’s glare to mark their need,
For self-proclaimed deeds dim the heaven’s light,
And mock the grace in secret we should feed.
The Lord alone should see the quiet gift,
His criteria, a whisper, not a roar,
In stillness, love ascends to gently lift,
The broken high, their worth to full restore.
True triumph lies in shadows humbly cast,
Where Christ’s own heart rewards what pride outlasts.