A Poor, Wayfaring Man of Grief, Part Two

A poor, wayfaring man of grief, May struggle as it seems, To walk the road of disbelief, And snuggle with his dreams. Although alone and feeling low, He does his very best, To edify the ones who know, The meaning of his quest. Although he soars above the crowd, To catch the morning sun, He hides behind the glory cloud, Until his day is done. He cannot see how love survives, Without a single soul, And so he strives to make our lives, A diamond in the coal. His story is the glory, Of the Father and the Son, Our role is mandatory, For the battle to be won. He may not shine this image, By the lineage of his tree, And yet, the line of scrimmage, Is the courage people see. He may not race to set the pace, Of those who plant the sod, And yet, his place deserves the space, That tribulation trod. A poor, wayfaring man of grief, Is not so bad to me, He celebrates a pure belief, In love and honesty. He radiates the rainbow, In the afterglow above, The steady flow of those who know, The colors of his love. The story of his sadness, Is the madness we embrace, The glory of his gladness, Is the human in our race.