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An Anti‑Crown Litany
The hand that clutches will empty itself to dust. For it was never the builder who raised the house, nor the watchman who secured the gates.
“Cursed is the man who leans on flesh,” the Prophet cries, “for his roots seek waterless soil.”
And the Preacher whispers: all is vapor — even the labor under your own sun.
Horses are swift, chariots gleam, but not by might, not by power, shall the city be saved.
The servant does not bargain for wages from the Master who gave him life. The branch does not demand credit for the fruit the Vine has grown.
“You have nothing,” says the Faithful Witness to the self‑satisfied, “but I stand at the door.”
Every gift comes down — not clawed up, not earned, not owed.
So lay your crown in the dust, bow your name to the Name above every name, and let the river of grace do what your strength never could.
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