Mbata

Mbata kneels, head bowed beneath the sky,

A question forming in his heart, a sigh.

"Your wings, O God, a shelter from the storm,

Protection's grace, a constant, keeping me warm.

"By Christ's own hand, my healing freely flows,

No striving needed, just the faith that grows.

But wealth, dear Lord, it seems a distant shore,

Why must I chase it, work and sweat some more?"

The wind whispers secrets through the rustling leaves,

A gentle answer that the spirit weaves.

"My child," it murmurs, "though I guard your days,

The world you walk in needs a hand to raise.

"The strength you gather, muscles taught and lean,

Builds not just wealth, but purpose, unseen.

The sweat that falls, a seed upon the ground,

Nourishes the harvest, all around.

"True wealth, Mbata, lies not just in gold,

But in the skills you hone, the stories told.

It's in the helping hand, the work you do,

The trust you build, the dreams that see you through.

"So work with faith, and let your spirit soar,

For in the doing, blessings find their door.

The fruits you gather, shared with those in need,

This is the wealth that plants a blessed seed."

Mbata listens, heart begins to mend,

A deeper purpose, a journey to transcend.

He'll work with purpose, guided by the light,

For true abundance comes from doing right.