I passed him waiting by his cart. “God Bless you friend,” I heard him say.
His smile was warm, not like my heart. How easy beggars like to pray.
When I have prayed for God to hear, to help parched and withered grain,
His voice came not, nor was he near. All by itself came needed rain.
Thrice I had prayed to see again those who I loved, long passed away.
But sick and poor were all that came. How could I have such people stay?
So I have worked with eyes down turned and gleaned alone by sweat of brow.
All which, by rights was mine, I earned! But oh, the lonely silence now.
“Your God is foreign to my eyes.” This time the old man heard my chide.
“My son, I heard each time your cries. My outstretched hand was swept aside.”
-Doug Garrett