I Am Not Caesar’s

I am not Caesar’s.
I do not bear his stamp.
Though he’s tried to etch his empire
into the lines of my face,
I have scraped him off with every holy tear
and every cry for justice.

I am not the emperor’s coin.
I do not shine for his glory.
I am not made to be traded,
stacked, counted, spent, or hoarded.

I was shaped in the furnace of compassion.
Fired in the kiln of divine weeping.
Stamped with a fingerprint
that no empire can erase.

And still
I walk through a world of minted people.
Shiny on the surface,
hollow underneath.
They wear Caesar’s mask and call it strength.
They baptize violence and call it order.
They bless indifference and call it peace.

But I remember.

I remember the Garden,
and the breath that woke me.
I remember the water,
and the voice that named me.
I remember the table
not gilded, but broken,
where bread became Body
and love became blood.

I remember the Christ
who held no coins,
but healed with touch
and taught with tears.
And I?
I will not be numbered among the empire’s proud.
I will be counted among the broken-hearted.
The tender.
The inconvenient.
The fiercely faithful.

Let them have their silver.
Let them chase the fading gleam of control.

As for me
I bear the image of God.
I bleed with the world.
And I will not forget whose I am.