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The Evangelist

by Peter Marks © 2021

The biting wind blows from the freezing East
Fluttering the tracts that promise so much;
But compete with warm cafes at the very least;
Two for one breakfasts seem a far better touch.

Better than eternal life on a day like this.
When the love of Christ is just cold comfort.
The New Jerusalem? I'll give it a miss.
Me burning in hell? Not even a thought.

Faithfully he stands on his chosen, chilled spot.
Coldly passed with hurried, averted eyes.
How many care? Some? A few? Not a lot.
Perhaps just the humble and only the wise.

Sometimes he wonders if Summer will come.
But who will believe in forgiveness and sin,
While lounging on the beach, soaking up the sun,
Wincing at the sight of sun blistered skin?

But God doesn't speak with power and glory.
His call's not seen like a mighty mountain,
But with bundles of tracts that tell His story.
Offering wealth beyond all counting.

Faithfully, each week he's standing out there
In the heat and when it's bitter chill.
He'll be there; when it's raining, when it's fair.
With compassion, with care serving God's will.

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