The Beautiful Poem by Sophia White

They would seem to our eyes clothed in rags and in tears
Bound in shackles that chafe their pale wrists.
It would seem to our eyes that through icy glass years
They should struggle to merely exist.

All the nations despise them, the rulers all hate
The meek innocents under their feet.
And the sword blade pursues them its bloodlust to sate
Yet they glory in their own defeat.

Not a mind comprehends them or why they should sing
With their lives hanging by a mere thread.
In the prisons that hold them their praises still ring
Even still with their blood running red.

When another falls silent to never arise
All their enemies ought to delight.
But instead they fall silent as victory dies
In the face of a still-burning light.

All the world seems to darken in that little blaze
That is pure and as fair as a dove.
Pale the hands wet with blood, and how shaken the gaze
In the light of that bright golden love.

And the martyrs all dance in their garments of white
At the throne of the King of all Kings.
And they bathe in the Holy of Holies’ pure light
As their praises eternally ring.