They preach a gilded lie from pulpits grand,
That faith shall heap our laps with golden store,
As if His wounds were coins to fill our hands,
And grace a key to unlock fortune’s door.
But He was poor, with nowhere soft to lie,
His crown was thorns, His throne a splintered tree,
No riches gleamed where crowds roared “Crucify,”
Yet in His want, the truest wealth we see.
For as He is—despised, and bruised, and low—
So are we called to bear this fleeting pain,
Not chasing mammon’s false and fleeting glow,
But finding gold in loss, in scorn, in rain.
The prospered life they sell is but a snare,
His yoke is ours—through crosses we’re made heir.

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