The Gate of Mercy Closed
Across the sea where cornfields hum beneath the weight of freedom’s hymn, A people knocked upon the gate — the Afrikaners, pale with dust and history’s sin. They carried no gold, no glory’s flame, Only the prayer of survival whispered in God’s forgotten name. They came not with conquest, but with scars, Not with empire’s whip, but with memory’s bars. Once accused of power, now stripped of place, They sought a corner of mercy — a resting space. But in the land where liberty is sung, Where every church bell claims the tongue Of Christ’s compassion, pure and grand, A colder gospel met their hand. For charity wears a robe of choice, A selective ear, a tempered voice. And when the Afrikaners cried, “We bleed, too,” The pulpits sighed — but mercy flew. The Episcopal steeple, prou
- Writer
