homeless
Walking the streets at night with nowhere to go
homeless is the word and yes it is so.
Eating out of cans that's meant for the trash;
no food, no drinks and no cash.
Looked upon as a vagrant with the utmost disgrace,
seems the other person just avoids your face.
Thinks you're not human, just nothing at all;
sees you out there and won't listen to your call.
And now it's getting cold, so what will you do?
Where will you go, you haven't a clue.
No one takes you in, just watches you cry
don't give a damn even if you die.
But I will love you, yes, I will care;
see you around, yes, I will share.
For Jesus loves you all, that you should
know;
pray unto the Lord and let your faith
show.
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Prayer
Say for me a prayer, to set my mind at ease
Please ask the Lord, to forgive me please
To wash away my sins, of this earthly lust
that pulls us away, from his holy trust.
Ask him to have mercy, on my spiritless soul
to enter heaven, clean and whole
To receive the mansion, that was promised to me
and all other things, can't wait and see.
Tell him that I love him, which he knows as well
even though at times, I seem to fail
Strengthening of the spirit, is what I do need
and a little bit more, to help me to succeed.
And when you are finished, I'll say one for you
to help you receive, your blessing too
For he is Lord of Lords, and King of Kings
and more important, to me than anything.
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The following poem, "Dave",
was written by Rocky Wilson
in fond memory of Dave Baylor, a homeless hero.
Dave
You could always expect to see him
on that broken city street,
His tennis shoes slowly
disappearing from his feet.
But other days he's laughing,
never asking for a thing,
Helping other people,
living on that string.
His words all run together,
there's no teeth to give them form,
And he's light years removed
from the middle class norm.
He stoops all summer long in the heavy Jersey heat
To pick the perfect tomatoes, like 'em salty or sweet?
The tomato juice is always on the bottom grocery rack,
And Mrs. Smythe complains, stooping is so hard on her back.
In winter he watches cars for the business men,
Who like to keep their batteries so their cars will start again.
But none of them want him near their suburban door,
Let alone try on the shoes that he wore.
One April night Thunderbird was sitting on his knee.
He was feeling pretty good because spring was breaking free.
Then a whiff of smoke, a scream, sirens in the night;
His feet started running before his mind could get upright.
The child didn't stop crying, until he dropped her on the street.
And the people saw the shoes had melted right off his feet.
He didn't leave the hospital until the middle of June,
And even after all that time, it still seemed too soon.
His easy way of walking became a ginger shuffle.
Sometimes his face twisted, the pain impossible to muffle.
Folks who saw him stumble thought he was drunk at midday.
They were busy people, he was in their way.
They held their money tight and crossed to the other side.
A woman turned her head, doesn't he have any pride?
And none of them want him near their suburban door,
Let alone try on the shoes that he wore. |
Cathedral Kitchen