Hasten The Morning

The time will come — hold fast to that — When no child cries cold beneath a stranger's mat, When the hungry are fed not by charity's shame But because hunger itself no longer has a name. The time will come when mercy is just the air, When love is not given — because it's already there. But that time is not now. Now the table is bare. Now your brother is breaking and needs you right there. Now virtue is not a feeling — it is jaw and claw. So go. Stand in the gap. Hold the line. Not because suffering is sacred or ought to define All things — but because in this hour, A hand is still reaching beyond its own power. We do not love suffering. We love its end. We give and we shelter, we fight and we mend — Not to make peace with a world that still bleeds, But to hasten the morning when no one still needs. The time will come — we are forging it still — With calloused, aching, unrelenting will. Until then — we work. Until then — we stand. Until then — we press the future into the palm of our hand.