Pity the poor evangelist.
He must always be so perfect.
Not for him the down cast brow,
For fear of it's effect,
On those that he may chance to meet,
Who know of his profession.
A man like him must always greet,
A critical procession.
For friend and foe he must remain,
A beacon in the sky;
To sing his song with glad refrain,
And never dare a sigh;
For if he lets the barrier down,
Even for a moment,
The crowd is sure he's lost his crown,
And thinks his spirit dormant.
We all are made of flesh and blood,
And though some think this odd,
It's hard to stand on a pedestal, Friend,
Even for men of God.
Sometimes we thinnk so much of someone we put them on a pedestal in our mind's eye.
When we do that we don't really do them any favors. Actually we do them a dis-service.
Because then we expect much more of them than we should.
That's not fair. People are people, no more and no less.