Saturday, February 26, 2005

Sadness

I saw her before she saw me; and I recognized her, too.
A closer look only confirmed my suspicions--she was a prostitute.
I passed her by to wait for the bus to come by,
Watched as she walked up and down the roadside,
Eyes pleading with passersby, "Oh, do stop and spend your money on me!"

I watched at first with a cold heart: this was the one that had lied to me,
She told me she needed money to buy some chips--but chips don't cost $1.50.
I had seen later the money in her hand, and knew what it was for:
She was on crack--the drug--and needed the money for more,
Her body screaming, "Oh, give again that feeling I need!"

My heart began to soften, as I talked with Jesus there.
I couldn't help but wonder as I watched her standing there,
How long she had been like this? Why did this even begin?
She had started out, probably, just for the thrill, but then--
Then the drug lord had her crying, "More of the white stuff, please!"

He raised her price, by raising the amount she'd daily need.
Now she had to beg and be sold: a job doesn't pay that much, you see.
So now a slave to the long sought thrill that is killing her body each day,
She wanders up and down the street, giving herself away,
And rueing day by day the harlot she came to be.

That's who I saw this morning, on my way home from my job.
To think of all that she's been through--her name splashed through the mud,
Her parents have probably disowned her, her friend don't even exist--
And to think that if she were to die today, would she even be missed?
Would anyone care that a little crack whore had disappeared from the street?

Yes, Jesus would care, but who would care with Him? Would I, such a blessed young man?
Or would I turn my back on her pleading eyes, run away as fast as I can?
It is Jesus she needs and Jesus I have--what more do I need to say?
Oh, why did I not tell her just that, as I was ending my day?
Why could I not tell her this morning, "My Jesus is all you need"?

Maybe she will be there tomorrow, but then again, maybe not.
Maybe I'll get to preach the Gospel to her, maybe that's a long shot.
Or maybe she'll just die, and I'll be none the wiser.
She just a crack whore, after all, and, boy, does everyone despise her--
Everyone but Jesus, who calls daily to her crying soul, "Come unto Me."

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