|This is not Samuel - A striking picture I found online|
I drink from your cup
Eat from the bowl
You left behind in the rain
White and pure, soiled
I dip into your absence
Tasting traces of your life
And search for signs
Of you on the street
Remembering how you prayed
Out loud in the church
And slept awhile to ease
Away the harshness of days
You played music
I sang songs
We were bonded there
Where Jesus and Mary
Make their presence felt
Enfolding us in their Tent
Through weather that is
Worse than the poorest mendicant alive,
the pencil man, the blind man with his breath
of music shaming all who do not give,
are You to me, Jesus of Nazareth.
Must You take up Your post on every block
of every street? Do I have no release?
Is there no room of earth that I can lock
to Your sad face, Your pitiful whisper “Please”?
I seek the counters of time’s gleaming store
but make no purchases, for You are there.
How can I waste one coin while You implore
with tear-soiled cheeks and dark blood-matted hair?
And when I offer You in charity
pennies minted by love, still, still You stand
fixing Your sorrowful eyes on me.
Must all my purse be emptied in Your hand?
Jesus, my beggar, what would You have of me?
Father and mother? the lover I long to know?
The child I would have cherished tenderly?
Even the blood that through my heart’s valves flow?
I too would be a beggar. Long tormented,
I dream to grant You all and stand apart
with You on some bleak corner, tear-frequented,
and trouble mankind for its' human heart.