"Who Are They That Call Me Poor?"

The world says I am without;

It's plain to see that they are blind.

The world says I am without;

Yet faint I hear their words behind.

For from afar I hear one say,

How can so blessed you be?

When you have so little in your purse to compare with me?

You are poor, they say so loud.

You are a slave, a slave so low.

Yet I am served by priests and kings;

How much lower should I go?

If my poverty affords such grace-

Such grace they have never seen;

Then let me more-

Let me more be abased so more grace I can receive.

For they see with their eyes my fleshly condition;

Yet blind is the world to the debt of dead tradition.

For I live high in a house of gold;

Untouched by men unclean and cold.

Where is their god that serves them well?

Where is their joy being saved from Hell?

Where is their garment white with no spot?

Where is their joy? Have they not a lot?

Where is their priest that feeds them well?

Where is their love by which men tell

That they are God's - to Him belong.

Where is their weakness so He can be strong?

And by the way, while yet they fear,

Where is the comfort of their brother's tears?

Indeed I am rich and fat with meat,

Provided by my God who keeps-

Who keeps me safe within His walls,

Protected from what ere befalls.

The truly poor and truly blind,

Those who are truly left behind.

I could go on and say much more;

But who are they that calls me poor?

-Bro. Robert Hunt