A Seashell, A Cross, And A Comb
I once watched a man weak and broken down
And wondered what tragedy had taken its toll
Anonymous, yet visible all over town
His clothes are tattered and torn like his soul
A cardboard box is what he calls home
Calloused hands are wrinkled and drawn
In his pocket: a seashell, across and a comb
To help him remember all that's now gone
Each prize tells a story of his yesterdays
Bringing tears of both sadness and joy
He relives his past like Shakespeare's plays
With eagerness he once had as a boy
Daily-he thanks God, for this life
He's lowly and poor in the eyes of man
But despite his many hardships and strife
He knows his importance in God's divine plan
His presence: a reminder of what I could be
Not much separates the homeless from me
For treasures stockpiled here on Earth
In Heaven, have absolutely no worth
I now watch a man weak and broken down
And instead see an Angel, wearing a crown
©Copyright 1997-2002 Wendy R. Mitchell
