a chance to talk to him in the flesh
a chance to hold his brown wrinkled hand in mine
i'm pretty sure she'd like that too
even if she doesn't call it jesus;
she would like to be looked in the eyes
and talked with, not at or, worse, not at all
her skintight shirt her only shield to the night, and hate.
i think he would know if jesus-skin offered him a real meal
not a value meal, not a dollar in change
but true change, life change
and priceless love, cigarette burning ash
and eyes that see past cardboard "laziness."
who am i to want him here
but not to be him here?
how can i not feed his sheep
when that's all he's ever asked?
to love as he loved
surely that's an impossible task
how can i? won't i get hurt? won't it cost too much?
his hands are browned and worn, and
he grips that little hand all white and chubby, and
there is a light in both their eyes,
the kind that burns the soul,
and i think that's the first step
to walking jesus feet-
to love without condition
ann asked how we can be jesus's hands, reaching out to the hurting in the world, and this is a poem i wrote as an initial reply. join her for walk with him wednesday?