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Perspective

The poor man walks with weary feet, Counting coins for bread to eat. He knows the price of rice and grain, The rising cost, the daily strain. The rich man sits in halls of gold, Speaking not of prices told. He sees beyond the numbered scale, The worth of time, the weight of tale. A poor man sees a wooden chair, A price tag placed, a cost laid bare. The rich man sees the hands that built, The years of skill, the crafted tilt. A poor man sees a diamond bright, A thing of wealth, a sign of might. The rich man knows its deeper tale, The hands that mined, the sweat so pale. For price is set, but worth is felt, A truth that time has always dealt. The poor man counts, the rich man sees— The gap between is more than fees.
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Weight of Grief

I have poured my sorrow on empty ground,
Watched it vanish, without a sound.
I have wept in the dark where no one could see,
But silence returned every plea.

I have traced my wounds with trembling hands,
Wondering if pain ever understands.
Yet in the weight of grief and sand,
I found His scars—a place to stand.

So I gather my tears, not one misplaced,
And lay them down where love embraced.
In hands once pierced, now raised above,
My sorrow meets a deeper love.

No tear is wasted, no cry ignored,
For mercy writes what pain implored.
And in His palms, my heart can rest—
A life redeemed, a soul confessed.

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