Meditations In the Word

In the quietness of the prison house
I see him gently resting.
The tired, abused, and mistreated man
Now calmly slumbers, awaiting another day.

His skin is pale, his face disfigured
His eyes are dark with weary circles.
The clothes he wears are old and torn,
And his fingers are rough and stained.

Shhh—, be quiet—don’t rouse him yet.
Let him have another hour.
For when this lowest of God’s men awakes
He’ll pray, ever so long, then begin to write.

He is a great man, and yet he is no one.
By his own words unworthy
And yet a bolder, stronger man
I’ve never chanced to meet.

His voice is rough and cracked
But his words both grip and sooth.
He never speaks of his greatness,
All the time telling of another.

As the dawn of a new day approaches
I begin to grow eager, wondering what today
He’ll say or write or visit with someone about.
And still in my heart I know what will be said.

I’ve come to find no pride or great joy
In the task that I must do.
But as I sit and talk with him
I’m so glad I’m hear and near to him.

He told me of a time in his life
That made my strong heart shudder
And how one day he saw the Light
He changed—born anew.

He knows his clothes are torn
And that his body is a terrible sight.
In all the precious time I’ve been with him
I’ve never heard him complain, not one time.

I used to be so curious when
He would watch me and begin to write
And then he’d look at me again
Then lower his head and write some more.

One day he asked me to read
About the uniform I was wearing
It was on that same day that
I became a soldier for a greater army.

Well…it won’t be long now, he’ll be up
And seeing to his daily habits.
I’ve grown to love this dear little man
Too bad only a few will remember him…

(C) 1991 R.K. Richardson. All rights reserved.