Blessed are they, those brought down low,
Down in spirit,
Down they go.
Poverty of spirit, life sped slow,
Into the darkness,
Heavy with woe.
What beggars they are, oh how they know,
The lowly devout.
Empty quiver and bow.
Under the rags, under life’s snow,
The mourners weeping, all down the row,
Awaiting a kingdom,
They somehow know.,
Holding all this, fresh rivers flow
To raise up the Saints
Mercy winds blow.