This poem pits the fleeting, moldy offerings of prosperity preachers—crumbs of wealth that fail to nourish—against the eternal bread of Christ. Their lavish promises turn to dust, leaving hunger unmet, while Jesus, the true loaf, satisfies the soul freely and forever. His sustenance triumphs over greed’s hollow feast, bringing renewal and life without end.

They scatter crumbs from gilded trays,
Prosperity’s hawkers, bold and loud,
“Feast on wealth, your hunger’s cure,”
But the morsels mold, a starving shroud.

Their tables gleam with hollow fare,
A banquet built on fleeting dust,
Bellies ache, though plates abound,
For greed’s dry crust betrays all trust.

“I am the bread,” Christ softly calls,
“Eat of Me, and never pine,”
No price to pay, no riches weighed,
A living loaf, both yours and mine.

Their stale heaps crumble, fade to ash,
While Jesus feeds the soul’s deep cry,
One taste of Him, and life’s renewed,
A feast eternal, none deny.