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| Photo by Bgrace |
I see him walking on the same roadside just about every day.
He’s always on the same road; not always headed the same way.
He stuffs his hands in his pockets, pushes his chin down his old coat,
Hunches his shoulders over his frame and walks purposeful and slow.
Homeless man, where are you going? Where do you come from?
Did your mother forsake you? Did you leave your own son?
What is this tenderness in me that wants to take you in?
Give you new glasses; shave that bearded chin.
Maybe then you’d see better; raise your head above your sin.
I’d cut your too long hair, and give you my husband’s clothes.
I’d bandage up your blistered feet and even clip your toes.
I’m sure you’d need to eat, and what more heaven knows.
I’ll watch today as I pass you by,
Wish that I could give a hand.
But you wouldn’t, and I couldn’t.
So instead I’ll sigh and pray.
Homeless man, where are you going? Where do you come from?
Your Father has not forsaken you, someday you’ll see your son.
