Blood and Crown

We’ve all heard the name Charles III, the son who rose when his mother fell. We saw his face in newsprint and on screens, but did we ever truly feel the weight of that crown? We call it “royal,” as if robes and titles alone eclipse the common, beating heart. Yet the God within - Source Energy, Love eternal - does not lean toward Buckingham or Windsor more than any corner of our earthly family.

Once, those crowns were crafted in the fires of petty kingdoms (Wessex and Alba) and reforged into empire. By the time Elizabeth I gazed across the sea, monarchy had begun to taste human flesh. That hunger crystallized under Charles II, whose brother James birthed the Royal African Company in 1660 and sat in gilded robes while shackles clanged. In its first decades, the Company shipped an estimated 5,000 souls a year, weaving its profits into ivory, gold... and black blood.

Monarchs are lauded for pageantry, pageants that blind us to their legacies: more than 187,000 men, women, and children sold across oceans under their charter . And under William IV, the throne’s voice rose in Parliament to condemn abolition as dangerous meddling, to argue slaves lived in “humble happiness.” 

How odd that in every race, we nod politely as press praises the crown... flinching not at whispers of reparations, refusing to reckon with stain as deep as any river. We hear no apology when history recounts that a daughter was sent away, her husband silenced, their child kept from a palace because she is Black. There, behind ancient walls, color still draws lines, forcing Meghan and Harry to flee for breath.

Yet darkness cracks at its seams when we name it. The British monarchy, burying centuries of profits in bricks and banknotes, tied its wealth to the bones of stolen lives. When Time unearthed that Charles’s forebears owned plantations supplied by Royal African Company human cargo, the world shivered at the kinship of crown and suffering. Still, media shrugs. Too polite to ask why royal reparations remain a dream; too eager to tell us reprieve awaits in ceremony.

But there are no hierarchies in Heaven. In the ledger of souls, no crown outweighs a heartbeat. The royal family may stand behind walls of marble and myth, but those walls cannot shield them from cosmic accounting.

So we shake free the spell: blood is thicker than pedigree; humanity is richer than heraldry. We hold our history by the record of tears and broken chains, and we demand more than regal sorrow. We demand restoration, face-to-face, with souls still echoing in the breeze... those cast off into darkness so that kingdoms might shine.

When the trumpets sound at Charles’s next state march, may we hear instead the drum of justice, the heartbeat of ancestors calling us home. May love rise, among us all, from the ashes of crowns... and may forgiveness meet its counterpart in truth.