Who Is a Miser?

Who is a miser? A soul grown cold,
Who counts his silver, but not the gold
Of kindness, mercy, love, and grace
He hides from giving, with hardened face.

He locks his cupboard, seals his chest,
Fears that sharing steals his rest.
He sees the poor with lowered eye,
And walks away while others cry.

A miser holds his coin so tight,
He forgets the beauty of the light.
His wealth may grow, but heart grows small
He builds high walls, but learns to fall.

He fears that giving means he's weak,
Yet strength is found in aid we seek.
The hand that opens learns to live,
The heart expands when it can give.

For miser’s riches turn to rust,
And all he hoards will turn to dust.
But generous souls, though not so grand,
Leave treasures time can't understand.

So, who’s a miser? One who’s blind
To wealth that flows when we are kind.
Not he who’s poor, but he who stays
A prisoner to selfish ways.

No friend to call, no child to raise,
No thankful hearts, no songs of praise.
His house is full, yet soul is bare—
A silence deeper than despair.

He passes beggars on the street,
With steady eyes and hurried feet.
He fears that mercy makes him poor,
But wealth unused is nothing more.

He thinks the world is out to take,
So every gift he must forsake.
But joy, like seeds, begins to grow
When scattered freely, row by row.

A miser speaks with measured breath,
He walks the road that leads to death.
Not death of flesh, but heart and flame—
He’s rich in purse but poor in name.

The rich in love, though pockets thin,
Hold treasures that outlast all sin.
A smile they give, a hand they lend,
A kindness shown—begin to mend.

The miser’s world is cold and grey,
No child will skip along his way.
No stories told beside his fire,
No legacy for men to admire.

He hoards his coins, yet fears they’ll flee,
So lives in chains, yet calls it “free.”
His treasure chest becomes a tomb,
A dark, decaying, silent room.

But those who give—though little shared—
Are far more rich, because they cared.
They plant in hearts what gold can't buy:
Hope, and peace, and lullabies.

He feared the smile that cost him none,
He feared the shade, he feared the sun.
He feared that love would wear him thin,
But didn’t see the loss within.

For though his hands held gems and grain,
His soul was dry, his spirit plain.
No fountain flowed, no roots ran deep,
Just haunted dreams and restless sleep.

He’d pass the market, purse in hand,
Yet never help the struggling stand.
He’d bargain down a widow’s price,
And weigh her tears against his vice.

Children laughed, but he would frown,
He feared their noise would weigh him down.
He never danced, nor sang a tune,
He feared joy's fire would burn too soon.

He praised himself for being wise,
For closing ears and shutting eyes.
He’d say, “The world must earn its bread,”
While warm meals sat beside his bed.

He built his home with marble pride,
But kept no door or heart open wide.
His servants left with silent dread,
For no kind word had e’er been said.

And when the storm would lash and moan,
He’d sit inside—completely alone.
His fire burned, his curtains drawn,
But no one came at dusk or dawn.

He aged, but never truly grew,
For love was something he never knew.
He counted days, he counted gold,
But never tales that hearts unfold.

And when the final moment came,
No priest was called, no child, no name.
The coins he kissed, he could not keep,
They buried him in silence deep.

No mourner wept, no eulogy,
No song, no rose, no memory.
The wind blew soft, the earth stood still,
A wasted life on selfish will.

But elsewhere in the same small land,
A poor man worked with open hand.
He had no vault, no treasure pile,
But fed the hungry with a smile.

He clothed the cold, he shared his bread,
He listened close to what hearts said.
He gave the last he had to give,
And taught the broken how to live.

His home was small, his bed was thin,
Yet light and laughter lived within.
And when his time had come to part,
A thousand tears honored his heart.

The world remembered what he gave,
Long after he was in the grave.
His name was passed from tongue to tongue,
In every story mothers sung.

So let the miser's tale remind,
That richest souls are truly kind.
That giving doesn’t make you small,
But helps you stand, and never fall.

For kindness builds what time won’t break,
And joy is found in what we make—
Not of our wealth, but how we live,
And just how much we choose to give.

Be not the one who hoards and hides,
With lonely nights and empty strides.
Be he who gives without regret,
Whose heart the world won’t soon forget.

Your coins will fade, your house will fall,
But love will echo through it all.
Give now, give much, while time is near—
For death erases wealth, not cheer.

And when you’re gone, may others say:
“He gave his best, he lit the way.”
No miser earns the world’s applause—
But givers live through noble cause.