Dear Reader,
From the poet —
I offer you this poem not as mere verse, but as an ancient mirror held up to every age — especially our own. The story of Nebuchadnezzar has haunted me for years: a king at the summit of human power who looked upon his works and declared them his alone, only to be driven from men to live as a beast until he learned humility.
In “Claws, Crowns, and Crawling Kings,” I have tried to capture both the terror and the mercy of that fall. Pride is not loud only in ancient palaces; it whispers today from boardrooms, presidential suites, and every heart that mistakes borrowed power for divine right. The grass still grows. The claws wait patiently. The Watcher still cries, “Cut it down.”
My prayer is simple: may these lines serve as warning and invitation. Warning, that unchecked pride turns even the mightiest into beasts. Invitation, that genuine humility can restore a man — or a nation — to light.
Read it slowly. Read it aloud. Then look around at the towers we are building, and ask: Whose name is truly written on these stones?
With solemn hope,
The Poet
In towers of gold where empires kiss the sky,
A king once roared, “Is this not Babylon—mine?”
His hanging gardens dreamed beneath the eye,
His armies bent the rivers, sea, and time.
No god above, no limit to his will,
He feasted on the praise of trembling lips.
He named each stone and conquest with a thrill,
And carved his name where even heaven dips.
But Heaven watched. A dreamer saw a tree
Whose branches scraped the stars, whose roots drank lies.
A voice rang out: “Let pride be cut and flee—
Seven seasons teach what mortal man defies.”
The axe fell swift. The king fell to the ground,
Crawled belly-low through dew and driving rain.
His nails grew claws, his hair a matted crown,
He ate the grass, he howled where once he reigned.
The beasts he ruled became his only kin;
His throne of marble turned to mud and stone.
In madness’ mirror every tyrant’s sin
Is stripped and shown: the heart that swells alone.
O leaders now—in boardrooms, halls of state,
Who tally conquests, bend the laws at will—
Your gleaming towers dream the self-same fate:
A watcher cries, “Cut down what you have built!”
The grass still waits. The claws are patient things.
The crown that weighs too heavy cracks the head.
When men forget the Hand that grants their wings,
They graze with brutes until their spirit’s bled.
Yet mercy lingers when the “I” is slain.
Lift eyes to heaven—humble, unafraid—
And kingdoms rise again beneath the reign
Of One who never shares His throne with pride.
Passionately Pursuing Christ 