Dale Lloyd

How have the mighty fallen? The question opens something wide—
not triumph, but a trembling door,
where sorrow and reflection hide.

We fill our hands with stones to throw;
religion taught us how to go.
No compromise in our response—
without mercy we must judge the wrong
till memory of the fallen is swept away and gone.

We raise our voices—mostly fear,
afraid that this could well be us.
We name the failure “out there,”
so ours remains anonymous.

Look at me—how strong I stand,
how clean my story seems to be,
while quietly the fallen one
holds up a mirror—meant for me.

For this the wisdom softly speaks,
not shouted, not revealed by zeal:
the way I meet the broken one
is how my own heart is revealed.

May a spirit of meekness guard my heart,
humility be my call;
may I love the fallen with patient grace,               what I would pray for, should I fall.