Scott Simpson · Poetry

Remnant Pride

Restoration Blues · source pages 34

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Source page 34

Remnant Pride

They called themselves the remnant—

chosen, set apart, pure by virtue of survival.

Not reformed but restored, they said,

as if holiness were a relic

to be dusted off and displayed.

Humility is difficult in halls of mirrors,

where each face is a little brighter,

each voice a little more right.

They sang hymns of self-assurance,

preached sermons to the choir,

built walls higher, gates thicker.

We would have done it right,

they said, if we had lived back then—

not like those who killed prophets,

not like those who compromised.

But they spoke like Pharisees,

boasting of tombs they’d cleaned,

blind to the bones inside.

The remnant missed the rabbi,

too busy dusting altars,

counting the faithful,

arguing about which side of the boat

to cast the nets from.