“People are the foundation of the state; when the foundation is firm, the state is at peace.” These words appear in the *Book of Documents*, voiced not by a ruler in power but by five grieving princes mourning the fall of their brother, King Tai Kang. Having abandoned governance for endless hunting and pleasure, he lost the people’s trust—so completely that the frontier general Hou Yi blocked his return across the Yellow River. In exile, the five sons recall their ancestor Yu the Great’s warning: “The people may be drawn near, but must never be held beneath you.” They speak of ordinary men and women as possessing moral insight—even surpassing the ruler’s—and warn that resentment builds unseen, like rot in a fraying rope holding six galloping horses. Their lament is not abstract theory but urgent testimony: a ruler’s legitimacy rests entirely on how he regards the people—not as subjects to command, but as the very ground on which the state stands. The *Book of Documents* preserves this moment not as distant history, but as a living standard by which authority is measured and found wanting.