TITLE: People Of The Street
By Joel Grissett
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Their shoes are worn, their clothes are frayed,
Their look is rarely neat.
But what can one expect of them,
Theyíve lived out on the street.
Thereís no restriction as to age
As one can clearly see,
From infants held in motherís arms
To men past eighty-three.
The broken hearts, the shattered dreams
Of what once might have been,
Have haunted these poor hurting souls
For countless nights on end.
In from the rain and chilling wind
They enter from the street,
All hoping for a place to rest,
A little bite to eat.
The eating done, the beds assigned
They listen for the chime,
And then the call rings through the hall
ďCome down, itís chapel time.Ē
And down they come, because they must,
Itís all part of the deal.
An even trade is being made,
A sermon for a meal.
I stand before the listless crowd,
Their lives a total loss,
To tell them of Godís saving grace
And point them to the cross.
Cold weary eyes stare back at me,
Reflections of their heart
Small effort to hear what I say
Is made upon their part.
Still some do hear and some do come,
Responding to Godís call,
To seek forgiveness for their sins
And to give Christ their all.
Oh how my heart goes out to them
With each impassioned beat,
Dear Lord use me to reach I pray
These people of the street.
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