The poor in Spirit,
those restless souls,
no meaning at all,
no purpose nor goals.

Life but a rhythm,
of repeating ways,
no surprises,
and a body that decays.

Oh, I hold these,
closely to my heart,
longing intensely,
to bring about,
a fresh new start.

Tired they are,
existence but a drag,
carrying the weight,
of broken dreams,
on their back.

Pity,
anger,
frustration,
not even the Sun,
deserves a Celebration.

Entangled by,
their Spirit's cry,
calling from the deep,
yet pointing at the sky.

These souls,
I know so well,
once I too,
walked aimlessly.

A day will come,
when exhausted they are,
ready to drink,
from the Spirit's Jar.

And all the way,
unto this day,
I shall be here,
ever so near,
to love and serve,
all brothers of mine,
waiting for the day,
their Spirit they'll find.