The Last Supper Poem by S.W. Clark

Beaten by worldly greed and gain
the chaff of innocence is seldom gleaned,
Of that possesses a disdain
to gather what it never weaned.

And the guilty stand with blood and bone
to prosper its inherited hoard.
But alas the meek they stand alone
buying little they can afford.

When the chilly gusts of Autumns end
shall drive them past the fields
We will rid our lands of what fools defend
and be minded of what their seed yields.

What will you reap O' man?
What crop will be your favor? ,
Do you wish to eat of hate's pan,
or is love more of what you savor?