Crippled and bent, in the dust he sat;

for his legs were wasted away.

With out stretched arms and wooden bowl,

he begged for coins each day.

 

He begged for those in his tiny shack.

For begging was all he had known.

And he did his best, with all his heart,

till they came and carried him home.

 

And some have no legs and others no eyes

and some are all twisted and bent.

But others have hurts, that do not show,

for their souls are torn and rent.

 

And these poor souls are crying out

but no one will give them heed.

For them there’s no succor, like coins in a bowl,

or a bandage to comfort their need.

 

And who am I, to point this out?

What solace can my words bring,

to a person so crippled, deep inside,

that they wont let my warm love in?

 

For I may feel their urgent need

but there’s little that I can do

to help heal a hurt so deep inside,

if they wont let my loving words through.

 

The man with the bowl, sits in the dust

but his hands and voice ask for alms.

And you must leave your deep hurt behind

to seize love with wide open arms.

 
 

David Garlick, Victoria, December, 1991