He sits
beside the dusty road.
His
face, his soul are caked with dust.
He
slumps beneath guilt’s heavy load.
The
glaring eyes, the jaws outthrust,
the
scornful stares no longer burn;
accustomed
to his people’s hate,
he
dares not hope enough to yearn,
too
dead to mourn his dying state.
Across
his view some children run,
Leaping,
laughing with delight.
Heads
turn, and down the road there comes
a man with
eyes alive with light
who
smiles as the children play.
His
footsteps trace a joyful dance.
The
tax-collector looks away
and
wishes for another chance.
He
hears the dancing steps draw near.
He does
not dare to raise his eyes.
He feels
the weight of shame and fear,
but
deep beneath the surface lies
a
thirst for life, for love, for good,
for
someone to call him to be
more.
If only someone would.
The Teacher says, “Come,
follow me.”
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