Beggars

The people that you seek
Are so far from your imaginings
That you would not know them
If you met them on the street.
You might not condescend
To greet
These lowly Kings 
Who have no use for earthly things
Except as a means to save your soul.
And the world they live in
Is upside down
To yours.
If you saw it,
You would not believe.
You would not choose it,
For to do so would mean
The relinquishment of all that
Which you hold most dear.
Don't you see?
That they are the beggars here
And you the beggars there.
But you knew that.
You've read how He
Descended below all things.
And you know how it was 
That Lazarus rose 
To that lofty seat 
Beside our father Abraham.
But I suppose
That it is no wonder 
That you don't choose to greet
That ruin that propels us 
Into mystic things.
And I suppose it's only meet
That we stand upon our feet
While we still can.
But IF
There burns within you
The shame of making gain,
Then perhaps there's hope 
That you too
Might descend
And rise again
Above some thing
That once you were.
And I think that's why
They haven't left us yet,
Why their miserable plaintive faces
Still look up
From underneath.
They love us - I think.
Or why else 
Would they suffer our disdain?
Why would they descend
To be so wretched 
In our eyes,
If not for hope 
That some would choose
The riches of heavenly things?