Thursday, May 6, 2010

The Rich Man's Death


I could have blessed the beggar
Found daily near my door
And never missed the outlay
With always plenty more.
And brought him to my wardrobe
And dressed him in last year’s.
And filled his aching belly
And washed away his tears.

But fashion held me captive
And closed the hand of grace
For fear of colleagues’ censure
For need to know my place.
A privilege come from family,
And shored up for one’s heirs,
Not soon to heed a pauper
Not soon to bless his prayers.

Just yesterday they told me
He sighed his final breath.
But still I hear his calling
Despite the unsung death.
“The good Lord, this. The good Lord, that.”
Would season every phrase.
Perchance he’s gone up laughing
To meet Him face-to-face.

And I am left the poorer
For lack of showing love.
Alas, not mine the blessing
That he secures above.
Yes, his a peace unworldly
Not seen in all the rest.
The pain now comes intensely.
“My lot, my loss, MY CHEST!”

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