Street Person
The morning sun,
a warm and welcome sight.
For I've longed for day
and place of warmth,
after another sub zero night.
Scarce comfort
was by me found.
In one old cardboard box,
atop a grate,
on frigid ground.
To passer's by
I'm oft viewed with disgust.
With body unkept, and stench of wine,
so unlike them,
giving off their air of trust.
But who can know but God,
of daily hardship's I endure?
Who will speak to me of eternal salvation
and if within my life,
It's secure?
Were man truly concerned
about my soul and being,
could he not walk with me one mile,
without judging,
instead of from me fleeing?
You whisper to another,
then, foregoing eye contact, you stare.
Not recalling another's words
"Ye did it unto me"
For Jesus, do you care?
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