I Am the Watchman on the Hill
I am the watchman on the hill,
My brother’s cry, I hear it still.
Though shadows stretch and winds grow wild,
I’ll cross the dark to find the child.
Not born of blood alone is kin,
But shared the fight we hold within—
When sorrow knocks or hunger calls,
My hands become the sheltering walls.
His burden is not his to bear,
If I walk by and do not care.
The chain that binds us, forged in fire,
Was made to lift, not climb up higher.
When he is weak, then I must rise;
To clear his path, to dry his eyes.
For what am I, if not a friend
Who stays when storms refuse to end?
No stranger’s fate is far from mine,
The hurt of one disturbs the spine
Of justice, mercy, love, and grace—
We share the wound, we share the place.
Let others turn their eyes away,
I’ll kneel beside him where he lay.
The voice of Cain may haunt the land—
But I shall reach with open hand.
For every soul, though bruised or scarred,
Is held in sacred trust, unmarred.
And I, though flawed and often blind,
Must be the keeper I would find.
So bind my heart to duty deep,
That I might guard, that I might keep—
Not just my brother, but the way
That leads us to a kinder day.
Author: Floyd Neal
Date: May 2, 2025
Inspiration: Being My Brothers Keeper
Copyright ©
Floyd Neal
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