so I marched
to the beat of a different drum,
walking a long obedience,
hearing the Beloved One
as He called, "To the poor! Quickly!
a glass of juice,
a touch on the head of this child,
a laugh with this prostitute,
as sadly she tells of her trade
and her desire to walk away.
"And the faces, dead -yet alive-,
the children, all spindly and pain,
cleanse them, heal them, raise them,"
His cry came again and again.
"With what?" I screamed back,
across the noise of the fight,
the lonely hours wrestling
not with prayer (so spiritual)
but with administration,
and letters to workers,
"My spirit is dry -
no laborers here -
and so poorly do I know You,
Your power seems so far away.
What can I give? How can I pray...?"
...I'll post the end of the poem tomorrow...
Just finished a great book, "Cry of the Urban Poor" by Viv Grigg.
Learned a lot.