The Gift They Spit On
THE GIFT THEY SPIT ON I came with fire cupped in broken hands, Not gold, not pride—just what love demands. A verse, a song, a cry for us, To lift dead hearts from dust to trust. But some men laughed before they heard, Killed the gift before the word. Called it trash, then shut the gate, As if contempt could conquer fate. “Don’t bring your shit,” the body cried, While Rav’s own words they cast aside. “We don’t care what Rav has said”— So ego crowned the living dead. And still I came. Still took my seat. Still dragged my shattered soul to meet. Not for honor. Not for praise. But because love must walk through hate. I watched the numbers slowly rise, From two cold hearts to seven eyes. So maybe every stone they threw Was building something strong and true. Still—it cuts. Like teeth in bone. To give your heart and stand alone. To bring a gift from love’s own thread, And have your brothers wish it dead. But here’s the brutal truth I’ve learned: The friend who’s crushed is where faith burns....