On streets made
golden by the broken boot-straps
of those under, stood upright he amongst the money plates
of such man’s lineage. Born into money,
work was a foreign concept; No need for righteousness,
for such was glory found in the hearts of men.
Beneath streets of gold,
sat fetal a man hunched over,
of no wealth or creed.
Humbled by life, but made
with eyes held low. Such man’s righteousness
was not enough, work that did
not satisfy. In something more
such a man’s heart rested in,
as he strived through rocks damp
Times told in such men past,
rendered crucial in this coming age. Fortitude of class,
shrouded in clandestine servitude,
was now tarnished with the hoofs of Faithful and True.
A man of no wealth found stature in eyes aflame.
Inconceivable glory and beauty rested on this man of no appeal,
Left despised like the sun that seemed to have died.
The last made to be first,
Spared from judgment and
Wrath. Trial had reached its end,
Suffering now made complete.
The man of no creed,
Inherited eternal wealth;
A heir to a divine dynasty, he was
Left upright by the treasures of heaven.