He has no home except this grimy street
Which wears the winter like a shapeless shroud.
He has not friend, except the witless one
Who walks beside him through the thoughtless crowd.
He has not food but what his fingers find
Among the garbage which the dogs disdain.
He has not hope to help him through the day,
No one to ease the lonely night of pain.
Does no one care? Is not one moved enough
To throw a blanket round his bony form?
Will no one put some bread into his hand,
Protect his head against the stinging storm?
I care!… says Christ. I know what “homeless” means.
I’m with the hungry in the line for beans!
I know the pitted pavement of the street,
And Skid Row bears the imprint of My feet.
I’ve often had no place to lay My head;
At Bethlehem they borrowed Me a bed!
You want to find Me? Then you’d better come
And face the stinking of the slum,
Where men live daily wishing they were dead,
And give away their dignity for bread.
You have the gall to ask Me if I care?
Come down to Desp’rate Street, you’ll find Me there!
And grasp this truth, for it could set you free:
All that you do for them, you do for me.
John Gowans, O Lord Not More Verse!