Desperate are the destitute,

the broken, starving, poor.

Yahweh, Yahweh!

come their breathless cries

between gut-wrenching wails of despair.

And we sit in suburbia,

comfortable in oblivion,

as our impoverished neighbors

grow weaker and weaker.

Their malnourished bodies

lie under our tables,

where we fill up our bellies

wishing charity were cheaper.

We take creative liberties

with what it means to give.

“So sorry, we’re too busy.”

The excuses reach their ears.

And they strain to listen closer

for a whisper from a Savior,

but their senses just aren’t strong enough.

It’s only us they hear.

So we think the problem goes away,

as it’s covered by our cushiony style of living.

We shrug off the needy, and look the other way.

It’s better to avoid the discomfort than start giving.

Their hungry, vacant stares are haunting.

We struggle to avoid their gaze.

We throw them crumbs so they’ll leave contently

toward thinly masked, inviting graves.

We feel them look at us through sunken eyes,

and hold out their trembling, skeletal hands.

We turn our heads quickly, slip a dollar in the offering

to tell everyone that we’ve done what we can.

Then we gather up the rest of our healthy income

and set it aside for a rainy day

to add to our pleasure, and mask any pain,

because as long as we’re cozy, everything is okay.

Dying are the destitute,

our neighbors, weary and weak.

But we’re confident they will be fine

and we pray

for the poor every evening at dinner before we eat.

Broken are the suburbanites,

the strong and happy crowd.

We follow routine,

but we don’t hear God’s plea

through the voices of the needy.

We block out the sound.

Empty are the wealthy ones,

the ones who have it all.

God wake us up.

Fill us full.

Let us love.

Let us follow you into the world.