A Stranger

Poem By Olivia D. Michaels

Sometimes we see a stranger, and look at him and wonder why
He is dressed in torn, and tattered clothing, not like you or I With worn out shoes, that have no soles, and a worn out coat full of holes
What is his story? Will it ever be told? The one who looks deep down in his soul,
However, can't seem to make himself whole? No blankets to keep him warm, no shelter from the storm,
Weather beaten skin, hair all stringy and thin, Shaking hands, nails that need to be
trimmed, wearing the same clothes that he slept in. He's lost and afraid, will he make it through another day?
Park benches, street corners, alleyways
Alcohol, shelters, violence, these are all a part of the stranger's day
Judge him not; watch what you do; after this stranger could be you! A smile he tries to muster up, as he holds out his tin cup
He looks at us with hope inside, only to see us hurry by
Closing our ears to the strangers cry Occasionally we will stop, and drop some money in
Thinking, this makes us a better human being
What if the Lord had done us this way? When we were in the miry clay
What if when we looked up in hope; He would have looked away We would be no different from the stranger, going our own way
With no direction, just trying to make it through another day
Where would that leave us on judgment day? Pick him up! Help him stand; this is part of God's plan
He said if you do it unto the least of these; you have done it unto me
You could be this stranger's destiny; who could change where he spends eternity
It's not what's on the outside, but what's on the in
Love covers a multitude of sins; so just love one another
It matters not if they're your sister, or brother, or even if they're kin
This is the only way this world can win!

Comments about A Stranger

There is no comment submitted by members.

Rating Card

5 out of 5
0 total ratings

Other poems of OLIVIA D. MICHAELS


Sometimes I sit alone, and comes to me a poem
A poem to say how I feel, to let me know that life is real
For sometimes, I feel as if I am dreaming,
in a world, which I don't belong.

Library Card

I remember as a child going to the big library shelf
And picking out poetry all by myself
I would pull out my big wooden chair to climb onto
Being very careful not to scuff it with my shoe I would reach up and pull down the book