The King will reply, “I tell you, whenever you refused to help one of these least important ones, you refused to help me.’ Mt. 25:45
A Christian died in the streets of Boston,
He had no home to rest his weary head.
Being more like Christ than all the lost ones
Who securely dwell in stately homes,
He lived on the streets through which he roamed,
And by god’s hand, like a sparrow, was fed.
A fox with no hole, a bird with no nest,
His unforgivable sin: being poor.
A monument to neglect, he now rests
In the firm grasp of Abraham’s embrace;
A frozen prophet preaching our disgrace,
A word of god lying outside Christ’s door.
Like Jacob, he wrestled through the dark night,
Fighting hard against winter’s chilly breath.
But no force of will, no power, no might,
No amount of faith in a god above,
Only action from those who claimed to love,
Could have rescued him from a senseless death.
This was a child of god, a ransomed soul,
A unique jar formed by the great potter.
And so-called Christians left him in the cold,
Out on the steps of the church where he died,
And not one of those so-called Christians cried
At the news of the death of this martyr.