Poem: Home

Home
© John Jenkins

Home is where the heart is…
But what if your heart’s not at home?
What if your heart’s a long way away
And makes you want to rome?

What if you’re feeling down at heel
And simply want to cry? What if your mind goes round and round
Asking the question, “Why?”

Your home maybe a place of peace,
It may be a place of war,
It may be a place you long to be
On a lovely foreign shore.

“Home is where I hang my hat,”
The restless wanderer said.
They found him lying on the beach.
Asleep? Oh no, he’s dead.

For some a home’s a luxury;
The child put out for care;
The vagabond who’s never clean;
The murderer in his lair.

For some their home’s a cardboard box
Flimsy and cold without pity;
For some it’s bric-a-brac and tat
In flood drains under a city.

For most of us it’s a fortress,
A place where we feel safe,
A place where we can rest, relax;
Not so the homeless waif.

For him life’s just a piece of shite,
A battle every day,
He may survive, or he may not,
Who gives a dam anyway?

God gives a dam, I’m sure of that,
His home’s not far away,
And angels sweep his mansion clean,
Where he will rest, one day.

But what about the comfy ones,
Who live life without care
For those who know no rest down here;
Have they a home up there?

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

And they will answer, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry or thirsty or a stranger or needing clothes or sick or in prison, and did not help you?’

“He will reply, ‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did (or did not do) for one of the least of these, you did (or did not do) not do for me.’

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

Written by a member of the congregation of All Hallows.

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