“O arrogant tested tyrannic king! I sent thee not to gather the world, but to answer the wronged one's prayers. For never shall I turn down a prayer, even if it comes from a disbeliever.”

O arrogant tested tyrannic king!  
Heard you the thunder that shadowed your ring?  
You marched not to harvest by your sword's hungry call,  
But to bows of the broken who chafed in their thrall.  

Your scepter was lent you, your crown is but loaned,  
Your armies, mere shadows on justice dethroned.  
You ride in the crimson parade of your pride,  
While prayers of the helpless are whispered beside.  

I sent thee, O monarch, not high to impose,  
But humble to answer the sorrow that grows.  
The tears of the wronged, uncounted, unsung,  
Are weights on the balance no tyrant has won.  

For mercy I send, as the rain to the sand—  
No soul is forgotten by Sovereign command.  
Should even a doubter in darkness despair,  
Their hope in the hollows will thunder my care.  

No minaret barrier, no steeple or creed  
Restrains my compassion or slows as they plead.  
So tremble, O king—your might is but brief,  
For every heart crying carves fate’s true motif.  

I sent thee not, O arrogant king, to enthrall,  
But heed the defeated, the least of them all.  
Remember this charge from the heavens above:  
No prayer is too distant, no soul unloved.

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