These Small Things

By Helen Welshimer
1902–1954; American journalist, writer and poet

He did not have a house where He could go
when it was night; when other men went down
small streets where children watched with eager eyes,
each one assured of shelter in the town,
The Christ sought refuge anywhere at all–
a house, an inn, the roadside, or a stall!

He borrowed the boat in which He rode that day
He talked to throngs along the eastern lake;
it was a rented room to which He called
the chosen twelve the night He bid them break
the loaf with Him, and He rode, unafraid,
another’s colt in that triumph-parade.

A man from Arimathea had a tomb
where Christ was placed when nails had done their deed.
Not ever in the crowded days He knew
did He have coins to satisfy a need.
They should not matter – these small things I crave –
make me forget them, Father, and be brave.

I'd like to hear your thoughts on this. Please leave a comment.

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s