Where Idols Crumble and the Wounded Are Lifted

Where Idols Crumble and the Wounded Are Lifted

The city raised its treasures high—
glass towers catching morning,
doors polished bright,
a name engraved in stone.

Below,
a person lay
with nowhere to rest his head.

We had words for everything:
property,
order,
the proper use of roads.

His lips were dry.

Then someone knelt
and asked his name.

A bottle opened.
Water reached his mouth.
A folded coat
became a pillow.

And something in our kingdom
began to crack.

Where idols crumble,
the wounded are lifted.

The coin left the hand
and became a room.
The hour left the schedule
and became a vigil.

A stranger’s weight
settled on a shoulder;
two lives entered
one another’s keeping.

At their center
stood the cross.

There,
love bore the wound
it would not abandon.

There,
the wounded Christ
and the serving Christ
met—
two as one.

Lord,
when my comfort closes the door,
let me hear the person outside.

When I cling to what I own,
open my hand.

Give me grace to kneel,
and grace to be lifted
when the wounded one is me.

Let the idols fall.

Let the neighbor rise.

Emmanuel.
Amen.

Pastor Steven G. Lee
Street GMC Corps
October 2, 2026

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