Lost Souls Of Wandering Boys
Poem By George Wootton
There once lived a boy in a ghetto for him there was no other place.
He was not black or white or yellow or red just a boy of the human race.
He was none of these yet he was all for hopelessness knows no color.
He could have been you or me or your father but he was everyone's brother.
He awoke each day in fear of the sun and what horrors it would bring to his sight
and in fear prepared a meager defense against the terrors of the coming night.
He had no future except to survive by any means he could.
He had not the option to qualify if those means were bad or good.
When bellies are empty one's pride can be stripped
by the pain in a sick mother's eyes and a boy will do what a boy can do
to comfort her painful cries.
His heart is kind but he must not be weak and give thought to the needs of others
so his actions are hard and reckless to supply for himself and his mother.
His need to belong is a driving force for no one can an island be;
So a gang of those like him he joined today, there is safety in numbers it seems.
The pressures of hunger and poverty now replaced with those of his peers
he is forced to perform deeds to dastardly for a boy of his tender years.
False courage and pride are a deadly mix as the headlines so often read
of a deal gone bad and another young boy is found bloody lying dead in the street.
Another of many young lives to be lost, for eternity to burn in hell.
What is the reason? What is the answer? Someone has tragically failed!
Where was God and His saving grace? Where was the love of our Lord?
Where was the knowledge of the way of escape from the devil who seeks to destroy?
Where was the news of the gospel of peace, and of the one who supplies every need?
Where was the church and the Christians therein telling a young boy how to be free?
The church has moved to the suburbs where it can more peacefully sleep,
and preach to the wealthy who are willing to pay for their conscience clear to keep.
They have programs for every age group, if they can afford to come
and they comfortably sit on their padded pews while another boy dies by the gun.
They preach peace, prosperity and power by the hand of a loving God
while a boy, by his grieving mother is laid quietly beneath the sod.
They play basketball in their fine gymnasium, in their Nike's and Reeboks so cool
while across town a young boy must steal for his supper and survive by hungers rule.
I believe God, in His infinite wisdom wrote the last book in the Bible for us,
we, the church, who grow fat in our comfort while the poor lay dieing of thirst!
Yes, He will have somewhat against us though He loves our songs and our praise
but our works are what we will be judged by, not the size of our churches today.
The wealth God gives to His people is misused on our comfort and joy
while there are souls to be won of some poor mother's sons,
Lost Souls of Wandering Boys!