The Salt of the Earth: Bridgeton, Missouri

From upon a lonely hillside, I hear the planes touch down

Their constant noise and rattle is the mark of my small town

A shipping yard and industrial center, the city loved by few

Is home to God’s blessed children, who dream of life anew

In Joseph’s sweet tradition they struggle for little pay

But understand their rewards to be realized one fine day

The town is Columbia’s crossing, the passage to the West

Built by calloused hands, settled by the nation’s best

My village boasts a proud story, a rich timeline of progression

But it has aged, grown weary, fallen into long recession

With thousands in diaspora, only the faithful remnant have stayed

Trying to rebuild from the groundwork that was long-ago laid

Efforts seem fruitless to bring back the prosperous time

When storefronts bustled and visitors need fear no crime

This village is mocked, laughed at, berated

Outsiders look in and see a city once great now degraded

But hark! Their cynical opinions are assuredly misguided

For only look closer and consider the naysayers chided

My town is a gem, the diamond in the north

A modern Bethlehem, its star still shines forth

Christ himself came from a town much like ours,

One free from wealth, prestige, and shining tall towers

In my people’s hearts, the spirit of morality exists

Even if the fall of property value still persists

This is the home of the worker, the downtrodden, the poor

A sanctuary for humility, modesty, faith, for ever more

So as I sit on this hillside, watching the planes come in

I pity those lost souls, who can’t see the beauty within.

-       Kevin ‘17