THE ARENA OF HEIRS

By Yasen Vedrin

(The Copper Bowl)

A sad world — an arena for the heirs.

The clash, alas, is known before the dawn.

The plebeians freeze in glaciers of despairs,

While expensive dapper men get tanned and drawn.

The poor man stops his counted patches keeping,

His debts constrain him in a nightmare tight.

The rich man changes thrills while others weeping:

Today — a yacht. Tomorrow — shopping sight.

With cursing words, his calluses now cutting,

The deadly tired porter groans in pain.

While every hour, aerosol sprays shutting,

A bored king changes crowns to rule his reign.

The battlefield is hidden from our eyes,

In invisible fights it bleeds and turns.

The diverse stage attracts us with disguise,

And ready in a flash, it traps and burns.

In that grim clash of heirs that never ceases,

With the yellow metal as a referee...

The poor are always crushed to broken pieces.

A toast to Caesar! From crystal cups with glee!

Ave, Caesar! Yours is the arena!

You crushed and won again, you hold the blade...

And the plebeian’s blood, in red and cleaner,

Leaves heavy drops and traces that won't fade.

In a sad world... Arena of the vile,

Sinking in its foul and stenchful flesh.

But past the edge, the unknown waits a while...

Abba Father! You will judge afresh!

THE POOR MAN'S ASTRONOMY

By Yasen Vedrin

(The Copper Bowl)

I saw the darkness of my life unfold –

A cosmos bound by coldness, space and time.

Instead of feeling joy, as I am told,

My heart is weeping in this state of grime.

I do not hunger after wealth or fame,

No palace and no shiny cars I crave.

If I should reach my pocket, it's the same –

A vacuum, where no rustling notes behave.

At restaurant doors they tell me: “Get away!”

In shops they watch me with a doubtful eye.

Like a black hole, misery holds its sway,

And sucks me in as options pass me by.

I notice stars. A few. They shine out bright.

From cinema, from life... on billboards tall.

They too are beggars, naked in the night...

Where do they keep their money, after all?

What a strange fate! A cosmos, it would seem!

With vacuums, with black holes and stars that glow.

Perhaps it is a planetary dream

Of purpose that was left from long ago.

About the hidden trap of our existence,

Where everything that glitters falls from grace...

I am a poor man, but with God’s assistance,

He will forgive my darkness in this place.

A TEAR FOR THE WRETCH

By Yasen Vedrin

(The Copper Bowl)

With heavy sighs and visible emotion,

At finding a poor cripple on her street,

A lady shares her thoughts with clear devotion

Regarding his repulsive, foul defeat.

“Oh, horror! Clothes so smelly, torn and shattered!

And tangled hair! Lice-ridden, I suppose!

I shiver looking at this creature, battered!

Why won’t he wash with Palmolive and hose?

Is begging not enough to buy some Ariel,

Or get a Gillette razor for a start?

To iron out his rags, make them more bearable,

And buy a little chair to cheer his heart...

Thus sitting on cement, what is he thinking?

The ants will crawl all over him, you see!

Oh, good God! With a headache I am sinking,

From fates so minor and of no degree...

Ugh, look! The sinner’s hand is reaching out!

He touched my lovely, beautiful mink coat!

If fleas infest my closet, without doubt,

I’ll surely know what note struck at my throat...

Why look at me? I take my napkin out,

For your deep grief has broken me in two.

Madame has shed a tear for you, no doubt!

A tear for all the suffering souls like you!”

A STORY WITH A TRAMP

By Yasen Vedrin

(The Copper Bowl)

For just a crust of bread, a tramp began to pray

Beside the trash bins of a city block.

“Oh, God! My woes have broken me today,

But You will help, for You are strong as rock!

A single slice is all I ask... For night!

To stop the rumbling of my empty space.

It’s hard to shiver with no food in sight,

I’m growing faint, darkness blurs my face...”

Out for a cigarette upon the balcony,

A snob o'erheard the beggar’s desperate cry.

To him, the groan below was pure comedy,

Much like a mock epitaph under the sky.

“I’ll have some fun! Why not, just for a thrill?

I have a leftover piece of bread right here.

That wretch below is praying with such zeal,

Though God will hardly show up and appear...”

A moment later, down the bread piece flies

And lands upon the grass... A miracle untold!

The poor soul fills with joy he can't disguise,

For God has heard him from His heavenly fold.

“Oh, at Your feet, Almighty God, I fall!

My soul now praises You with all its might,

For You do hear the mournful sights that call,

And heal my sorrow with this bread tonight...”

The snob bursts out into a roaring laugh:

“What God, you fool! The bread was given by me!”

“Old man! I asked Him for it on my path...” —

The comforted poor soul replies with glee —

“And He accounts to no one for His grace,

Of where and how He chooses to be kind!

And so to Him, the Glory shall take place,

Even for the smallest things that we may find...”

The cigarette burns out... untouched, ignored...

The snob stands frozen, not a word to say.

The tramp walks past the bins, towards his Lord,

In radiant prayer, he softly walks away.

THE CALL OF FAITH

By Yasen Vedrin

(The Copper Bowl)

Come down from above, Dear Lord!

In a poor man's clothes arrive!

See then who with one accord

In Your holy steps will strive!

Who will warm the pauper’s heart

With a shirt, a coin, or bread,

And with timid love, apart,

Call himself Your slave instead!

Look, Most Holy Judge and Guide,

How the wolves the pastures keep,

And with cursed feet, in pride,

Muddy waters for the sheep.

Greedy men before You pray,

Yet Mammon is in their mind.

How they twist false hands today

For the hollow groans they find?

Where is Your poor widow now

With her final mites, so small?

Did she vanish from the plow

Like a stray dog chased by all?

Come down, Eternal God, to stay!

Bring Your Justice from above!

For in heartless years today,

Evil crushed the souls we love.

Kindness is a wanderer now,

Finding every door is closed.

For Your Comfort, with a bow,

Mournful faith its prayer composed.

Hear it, God of Mercy, hear!

Let Christ now return again!

And save hearts, in Spirit dear,

From all malice, grief, and pain.

THE BLIND MAN'S PRAYER

By Yasen Vedrin

(The Copper Bowl)

Blind to malice and to human plight,

Blind to furies, spits, and insults cast,

Tapping with my cane into the night,

With timid steps I venture out at last.

All my life a prayer I have cleared,

Hoping God would somehow find a way —

With pure faith to make my eyelids healed,

Turning into miracles my clay.

To open eyes and see the world arise.

The sun, the heaven, and the stars above.

To feel the grace that in the spirit lies,

And warm my chest with fire and with love.

Perhaps from deep within all human eyes,

Kindness always glances, soft and clear.

And from their depths, bright sunbeams always rise,

While man holds another human dear.

Lord, will You arrive? Please let me know!

In Your sweet mercy heal my broken sight!

This blindness is a heavy weight and woe,

And for You, the miracle is light!

But if, healed in Siloam, I should see,

Won't my spirit suffer even more?

"O, blind man! Do not grieve or bow your knee!

Your blindness is a gift, a prize in store!"

SEEK FOR THE LIVING SAINT!

By Yasen Vedrin

(The Copper Bowl)

“My little children, let us not love in word, 

neither in tongue; but in deed and in truth...” 

(1 John 3:18)

If poverty should hunt you down,

With overflowing grief, like streams,

Seek for the living saint around,

To hold your hand and build your dreams...

For with no candle, with no light,

And even with no prayerful plea,

With his two glowing eyes and bright,

He would give Love to make you free.

He’d strip away his only shirt

To warm a freezing back with flame,

For Christ Himself steps through the dirt,

To build a Temple in his name.

He’d open up his purse with grace,

And with his very final cent,

He would embrace the poor man’s space

With comfort that the Heavens sent.

He’d break his final piece of bread —

To put a Strength in those who fail,

And it stays true, whatever’s said,

When God makes joyful hearts prevail.

An angel for our daily need,

With fiery wings spread wide above.

With him — you are embraced, indeed,

Not just in words, but deeds of Love...

THE GOOD MAN

By Yasen Vedrin

(The Copper Bowl)

The good man, I tell you, is like a raindrop.

He will blend with the rest in a stream.

With a warm coat to share, and a bite not to stop,

To be God’s helping hand in a dream.

The good man, I tell you, has no gold in the bank.

No chauffeur drives his car down the line.

But within his own life, not of wealthiest rank,

Sunlit glances from his eyes always shine.

The good man, I tell you, can never be broken.

A tough branch is his spirit for years.

If he trusts an idea, by deeds it is spoken.

And succeeds... the good man through his tears.

The good man, I tell you, when giving, won’t lose.

By self-interest he’s never restrained.

In deep mercy for life, it is love he will choose,

With no tax for the deeds he sustained.

The good man, I tell you, is sowing his seeds.

He won't turn his eyes back to the past.

If a drop is still missing to answer our needs —

He will pour it, and streams will flow fast...

The good man, I tell you, needs no power or might.

He is power himself. Impulse, alive.

Even if his own fate should grow dark as the night —

In his faith he will happily thrive.

The good man, I tell you, inside me rejoices.

And awakes within you too, right now?

For the brightest of meanings, in all human voices,

Is to stop every pain with a bow.

MADAME PRIDE!

By Yasen Vedrin

(The Copper Bowl)

Madame Pride! I’m leaving you today!

Your fine, sophisticated drink I scorn.

With tiny sips of passion, as a prey,

You captured me; in Hell was Heaven born.

I used to wish your words would overflow,

And even wanted your stage-managed crown.

Upon your face no stain of sin would show,

You were a pure Madonna in my town.

What kind of blinded impulse did I find

To follow you, as quiet as a sigh?

Why was I weak before your words and mind,

Bound by your magic leash beneath the sky?

From all the brilliant glare your dishes start,

My soul forgot the place where it was born.

Those brothers who are wandering apart,

Whom nobody will praise or ever mourn.

Wretches and dogs in heavy mud that stay.

Even tramps who dig into the cinder pile...

...I choked upon an orange slice today.

I cannot drink your cocktail all the while.

Your glass made out of colored glass and light

I do not want before my pupils clear.

Even if I have a lineage, lost from sight –

With open covers I am standing here.

Inside my soul I’ll weep out every groan.

I’ll wipe away the tears of those in need.

Madame Pride! Farewell! No bow or throne!

Before your face my spirit shall not bleed!

GO SINK INTO THE GROUND!

By Yasen Vedrin

(The Copper Bowl)

I do not play at dice with the Deceiver.

Do not assume this choice is just a right.

Once his authoritative die gets over –

It pulls and binds so many in its might.

And afterwards – just like a stringed puppet

The captured man betrays his own poor heart.

To be a living corpse where dead men sit,

And look as if his death became his part.

I would not ask great Goethe for advice –

How Mephistopheles tempts with his art,

But it’s enough my head through sacrifice

Refused a crown of fame for thorns apart.

And not for even one single moment’s trace

Will I whisper a call in demonic chaos.

And in the claws of that old cynic’s face

I will not be the learned doctor Faust.

Why is that so? Because I’m simple-born,

And simplicity holds me in its wonder.

The absinthe of my guest, whom I now scorn,

I would not sip for any price or plunder.

He holds a contract in his fingers high,

But with no seal from Christ's own Blood divine...

“...Absorb with thrills each calculated lie!

And lick the poison from your lips like wine!

I can bestow this world to be your gain.

Become your halo and your dark enigma.

Be like a nail to me! With you in pain

To burn within the holes of God’s own stigma...”

No, devil! Your accursed and wicked die

I do not want for fate and blinded madness.

You turned the world into a flea market high,

Where filthy crowds look at your stalls with gladness.

Though you are king of rulers in this land,

In your charisma of deceit and shame –

I do not play at dice with your own hand!

Go sink into the ground, from where you came!

THE LOCKSMITH

By Yasen Vedrin

(The Copper Bowl)

Bustle. Noise. A chaotic crowd.

Everyone is trying to go first.

At a stall – within a gloomy cloud –

Sells the devil locks to feed his thirst.

“Come on, people! Keep inside the line!

Goods have been delivered for you all.

Only let me see, in order fine,

All your hands reaching toward my stall.

Oh, dear lady! Heart dressed up in lace!

Put it on the scale right away!

And you will receive from me a space –

Just the lock that fits you for today.

Safety, is it? Please, madame, don't cry!

You are making me out loud to laugh.

Once I lock your shame and keep it dry –

You will be a fairy on my staff.

You will never suffer from any need,

Nor from grief and filthy charity.

But your brand-new world will be indeed

Like an Eden, with no scarcity.

Look, how easy is it! Isn't that so?

Next one please... Well done, my dear sir!

You are used to let your heart pain grow,

But it's better if it grows colder.

Scruples, did you say? By God! Oh, no!

Hell’s own guarantee is what you gain!

Even an orphan kneeling down below

Will bring laughter. Not a bit of pain!

Key, you ask? Yes! But it stays with me!

Every lock is sold locked from the start.

Thus eternal captive life you'll see,

And a happy living as your part.

Hey, young man! Are you here coming too?

Splendid! So young, yet you want my task!

With a heart that beats like hammers do,

Building up the monument I ask...

Cool, you say? What are you talking? Look!

Super you will be beneath my shield!

Your bright future now is off the hook

With this devilish purchase in your field!”

Bustle. Noise. A chaotic crowd.

Padlocks. Tombs where final death is spun.

Hiding in the ominous, dark cloud

Goes the devil with man’s hearts undone...

A COPPER BOWL

By Yasen Vedrin

(The Copper Bowl)

I saw a strange thing in my sleeping,

Jesus disguised as a poor man.

Beside a rich man’s doorstep keeping

A comfortless and grieving span.

He stretched his hands to beg for living,

Holding a little copper bowl.

Without answers, without giving

A question if you’re good or foul...

And look – the heavy door is creaking.

Out comes a rich man in a hat.

Like horses, up his head is peeking,

He looks at gray skies, cold and flat.

He goes to buy a paper, walking.

Should he now take a brolly high?

A moment later, near his stalking,

A copper bowl gleams in his eye.

“Oh, just a little mercy, mister!

A tiny coin from your own soul!”

“No! Not for you, you filthy blister!

I’m sick of begging hands that stroll!

Get out of here! You smell like rot!

You crawled from some deep, dirty hole!

Can’t you see written on this spot –

This home is model as a whole?”

With furious eyes after this talking,

The evil wealthy man is bound

To buy a paper from his walking,

With his favorite reportage found.

The beggar Jesus takes a flight

Just like an angel, on the fly.

The heavens hide Him in a bright

And prayerful rain with tearful sky.

Inside a bar, the man is seating,

He opens papers with a smile...

Sips from his coffee while he's eating

A sweet croissant to pass the while...

The rainy weather wakes me inside.

I leave the house, no brolly high.

To find a beggar on the curbside,

With a copper bowl passing by...

To recognize inside my keeping

The longing of the Good God's heart!

I want no more while world is weeping,

A doomed and cruel world from start!

PARABLE OF THE WONDROUS RIVER

By Yasen Vedrin

(The Copper Bowl)

A beautiful legend conquered my mind.

An old, sacred tale of a river so grand.

It healed every torment and grief of mankind,

Once washing the heart with a splash from the hand.

The deepest and open wounds quickly would mend.

No scar or a mark would remain to be seen.

A broken flower its new roots would send.

A dying spirit would spark and grow clean.

Along the green bank, a true Eden for all,

Day and night, lines of crowds would arrive.

The misfortunes of life that would bitterly fall,

Everyone wanted to melt and survive.

But they failed to learn the great lesson inside,

Concealed in the wise, flowing river and creek.

They were only enticed by the success and the tide,

Without a heart weeping in chests of the meek.

Without the silence of awe for the grace,

Without each poor soul bowing down in the mud…

And with hope, that the Lord had awakened to trace,

To give out around drops of love like a flood…

The clamor and cries from the mouths with no peace

Then saddened the river with sorrow and dread.

In a flash, all the waters subsided to cease,

And the green, blooming bank became darkened and dead.

Thus they left, with their anger unconquered and high,

Long lines of sin-burdened and sorrowful souls.

And they quickly returned with their open wounds nigh,

Midst misfortunes that shatter all human goals.

Only an old man with weeping and sighs

Held a handful of gift from the stream in his palms.

And he wrote in a legend of wisdom and cries

This end of the human estate and its qualms.

The river is still flowing living out there,

And with its pure waters a wonder imparts.

It is seen in the eyes that are weeping in prayer,

When people humble before God their hearts.

A PRISON STORY

By Yasen Vedrin

(The Copper Bowl)

A story now I shall unfold

Of a struggle that came to grief.

A rebel with a heart of gold

Tripped up his fate and found no peace.

He often loved to talk and share

With all his friends in dialogue,

That in his soul he could not bear

The ruler, a cruel, tyrant dog.

But his plain words were overheard

By treacherous men of evil mind.

And soon with slander and a word

A spying trap was redesigned.

The man cried out his painful groan.

He spoke out words of fighting might.

But microphone records were blown,

And he knew nothing of his plight.

With heavy rage and brutal force

The tyrant chased him from that day.

And in a flash, his human course

Was covered in wormwood's decay.

Within the prison he was cast

Marked as a rebel of the state,

And with the others there at last

His heart was grieving for his fate.

A cellmate lived beside his bed –

A withered wretch with beard so white.

But in the fate that he was led

He became brother, father, light.

And just before he took his flight

To go to God’s sweet, heavenly floor,

He chose to share his wisdom's light

In one last Holy lesson more.

“Now listen to my words, my son,

Before my eyes forever close.

This prison time will soon be done

And memory will erase its woes.

A cunning man recorded you

And basely slandered all your art.

I know today you tremble through

And this oppresses your poor heart.

But let another record stay

Before you open and revealed.

For God puts conscience in our clay

To be a fierce, targeted shield.

It keeps a record of each deed,

Of hidden sins and spoken word.

An unseen judge above our breed,

When summoned by the Living Lord.

And sinners howl in hell's deep fire,

If in their life they did not try

To clear from conscience their desire –

The devil's wealth they lived to buy.

Fall on your knees in prayer now

For God to pardon your misdeed.

The soul will fly – we know not how –

To fall, or shine like holy seed…

From me, a wretch in heavy chain,

A blessing comes to you with love,

For just one drop of Blood is gain

For peace beneath God's tent above…”

The old man died, bent down and low,

Above his grieving son and brother.

But with his final, parting glow,

Grace came to wash the cells each other.

And in that bright and sacred space

The man felt Holy freedom far,

Along an unseen path of grace

Toward a bright, sweet Morning Star.

THE EVERLASTING VICTORY

By Yasen Vedrin

(The Copper Bowl)

It’s victory, if poor you stay inside,

Cursing the devil's traps and heavy vice.

Being the last in earthly goods and pride,

With no handful of greed to pay a price.

It’s victory, if kicked by all the crowd,

While worldly laughter scorns your holy soul,

Swallowing all the griefs beneath the cloud,

Yet keeping your bright, endless path whole.

It’s victory for your spirit to implore,

When evil through the worldly crisis roars,

To hug the naked people at your door,

With unfeigned sorrow that their eye outpours.

It’s victory, left with a fading might,

To crush down the titan of deceit,

As long as faith inside you kept alright

The sculpted Stone in God’s own hand complete.

It’s victory to bear the furnace flame,

Since God's own Holy Fire is more hot.

The Fourth One is your Prize, who came

To save you in the burning oven’s lot.

It’s victory inside the lions' den

For Peace to be your Shield and heavy wall,

While dogs of evil traps and wicked men

Are swallowed by a terror after all.

It’s victory to contemplate with pride

The Holy Castling, both by night and day –

For if the first falls down from built-up pride,

The last will be exalted from the clay…

And let your heart look closely on this sheet,

Not at the words, but Spirit they display:

Christ is the everlasting Victory, complete,

Above this world, by Evil snared away!

JUST ONE MORE DAY, MY BELOVED FRIEND!

By Yasen Vedrin

(The Copper Bowl)

Just one more day live for Christ and maintain,

Without thinking of years passed away,

For this world is enslaved by a villain's dark reign,

And black swarms plunder it every day.

Just one more day fill with kindness and grace,

With a smile touch the poor on your track.

If He knocks at your door in a sorrowful space,

Do not cause God to wait or turn back…

Just one more day let each word that is said

With the pulse of pure Righteousness glow,

For deceit has enticed many souls where they’re led,

Filling tongues with a weight of dark lead below.

Just one more day let your bright, holy tears

From your grief into prayers start to pour.

Maybe angels with them will destroy all the fears,

Driving villains away from your door.

Just one more day testify to the crowd

Of the Lord, who looks into your mind!

Just one more day let Him shine through the cloud!

Just one more day let His Love bless mankind!

For with days that His Covenant granted to give –

Even centuries shorten and fade,

But with Enoch's pure Spirit on high you will live,

Finding heights once the crossing is made.

Just one more day, my beloved friend! One!…

Let the Light through your soul start to gleam!

For the human was born of the Father and Sun,

Like a ray whole life living His dream.

THE GREAT MEANING

By Yasen Vedrin

(The Copper Bowl)

Whenever the son starts to serve as a slave,

Embracing the call of the Lord from on high,

His heart overflows under grief’s bitter wave,

Yet never he turns back to shadows gone by.

In children the Life is creating and beating,

And peace like a river is pouring ahead,

While someone inside the breached wall is depleting,

And drinks bitter cups in the fire he’s led.

The death of the servant is heavy a cost,

So that sons can feel Love in their peaceful estate.

A wall stands between them and all that was lost,

Protecting their souls from the wild winds of hate.

Concealed in existence, as lone as a cave,

The servant abides, keeping watch through the night.

And nobody knows what the lonely flame gave,

Or how much it cost in the Lord’s holy sight.

The branches are heavy with faith and with fruit,

While down at the Root is the offering's sign.

For this is the Meaning of Life, absolute –

The plus from the minus is born so divine.

And let the grand Fig tree be filled with a bow.

The Vine – let it hang with the heaviest weight.

Whenever the son as a servant obeys,

Then Christ is the human’s ultimate fate.

A SERVANT

By Yasen Vedrin

(The Copper Bowl)

No matter if starving or sated,

I follow my rainbow of light –

To leave all titles behind me,

With "servant", despised in their sight.

It’s ancient. Deprived of all gleaming.

Like garments of coarse, woollen thread.

With destiny through deserts streaming –

A hermit to all worlds and dead.

It washes the feet with meek grace,

Forgiving the sin in a prayer.

Though dead, it is live in this place.

A crumb for the hungry to share.

This word collects treasures and stores

Not inside the banks and trezors.

Beyond the Golgotha it soars,

Defeating all pain and oppressors.

Prepared it remains to keep whole

Its lot before Pilate’s grim court.

No hatred can darken its soul.

No palace can change its report.

It suffers the scourges and spite,

Even crowns made of thorns and of dread.

It fears no grave in the night,

Nor arrows that strike mortals dead.

This word desires no crown from high.

It dreams of no power or throne.

With just four sharp nails in the sky

They grant its final hour, alone.

And even if I walk alone

In worlds ruled by madness and cries –

The Savior declares from His throne:

"In you I have ruled from the skies!

For servants reflect the Great King,

Who walked in this world filled with sin.

To love, to burn bright, and to bring

His Blood to redeem you within!

No matter if starving or sated,

Come follow my thorny, steep track.

Not titles and glory inflated,

But My Spirit brought your life back..."

A POOR MAN’S LITTLE FINGER

By Yasen Vedrin

(The Copper Bowl)

If a wealthy man fails to extend

His full hand to the poor and outspread,

Let him keep in his mind till the end

The poor man's little finger instead.

It is always so humble and low.

The last finger that stands on the hand.

But by Words of the Lord made to grow,

It has strength for the Cross to withstand.

"How a pinky? What speak you, O man?" –

A rich master would ask with a sneer:

"I have followed the Christ and His plan,

And my faith is both burning and clear!"

Well, recall the full drama and dread,

How deep down in the hell's burning heat,

The rich man called to Abraham's bed

For some comfort and coolness so sweet…

To send Lazarus, saved by His Grace,

With a drop on his finger to go –

That same wretch who in life’s earthly space

Found no honor or holy trace below.

But beyond, their two destinies flipped.

Each inherited what God had blessed.

And the poor man, no longer ill-equipped,

Found his place on Abraham's breast.

While the rich man, in torment and flame,

With a burning thirst called to his mind,

That with hearts hard as stones without shame,

He had left his own Heaven behind…

Oh, if only once more he could live,

To return there before he would die,

All the joy that the Heaven can give

In that pinky he’d long for and cry.

But that finger in hell can’t be found,

And a chasm divides it from grace.

His whole life was a lie, fully bound,

And forever it hurts in that place…

So I tell you right now, master dear,

To be rich in good deeds for the Lord.

For your life will soon fade and appear

Like a dream and a swift arrow poured.

Now’s the day to open your hand.

By tomorrow your pathway may stop.

And the Covenant aim in the land

Is this finger with one single drop…

DESTINY IN THE RIGHT PLACE

By Yasen Vedrin

(The Copper Bowl)

The Word of God is true and upright,

And let it be to all made clear:

Either a goat on left in twilight,

Or sheep on right with Him draw near!

The time will come for King's decreeing,

To call to mind His words of old,

And over all of human being

The fateful, heavy judge unfold.

To tell the sheep with faithful voice:

"Come here, most blessed ones, rejoice!

With Love your giving hands were burning

In years of cold and bitter yearning.

For most essential food and living

The wretched soul was sowed in giving.

The King was never left unfed,

And never thirsty on His bed!

You clothed Him with a garment warm,

And visited His prison storm.

You were His comfort, pure and bright,

His Holy Bride in fields of light…"

To tell the goats with angry face:

"Depart from Me, accursed race!

For you have horns that have been driven

Into the hands that King was given!

You turned My Bread into a stone.

You sold My blessings as your own.

And let the hellish fire and flame

Be your harsh sentence and your shame.

For midst your flock the King has met

No Mercy and no Grace as yet,

But like a dog you drove Him out,

Across the earth with hate and shout…"

What wailing cry will start to rise

After the King's true words and sighs?

Volcanoes made of wrath will shatter

The barren, blackened hearts that chatter.

The pit of hell will open wide

To swallow all of them inside,

For pathways to the shining space

Are never made for goats to trace…

But in a Heavenly Flash, the True

Will see Eternal borders view,

Where Lord remains their song and light,

And Spirit fills their robes of white.

Because each mortal will receive

A destiny that fits their grace.

Either a goat on left to grieve,

Or sheep on right in the right place…