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The Old Man
written by: Helen Dowd
THE OLD MAN
His life was such a weary pain.
His rising in the morning, vain:
He knew he’d not be young again.
He listened to the children play
Out on the street. They sounded gay.
But all he did was mope all day.
He thought upon his youth once more,
Remembering health and strength before.
Oh yes, life then was not a bore.
He was the master of his fate:
He could have chosen love, or hate.
Alas! He chose love, far too late.
He’d picked his options long ago.
He made few friends, but many foe.
His payment? Loneliness and woe.
He’d long forgotten how to pray,
Could not remember what to say.
In youth he’d cursed God every day.
He lived with bitterness and hate.
He didn’t care about his fate.
For life to cease, he’d sit and wait.
But even death did him defy.
He could not choose the day he’d die.
That choice was left to God on high.
He clutched the Bible in his hand.
Before his Judge one day he’d stand.
He longed that he might understand.
A light then burst upon his soul.
He cried, “Oh God, I’ve been a fool.
Forgive my sins and make me whole.”
Into his soul at once came peace.
The turmoil of his thoughts have ceased.
All hate has vanished, love increased.
And now he waits for God each day.
He’s listening for his Lord to say:
“Come home, my son. Come home to stay."
c. 2/97
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