Homeless Messiah

On city streets, where shadows grow,
A figure walks, both high and low.
No golden crown, no scepter grand,
Just callused feet and weathered hands.

His robe, a patchwork coat of old,
His throne, a cardboard box so cold.
Yet in his eyes, a light divine,
A wisdom deeper than any mine.

They pass him by, these busy souls,
Blind to the truth his presence holds.
For in this man of little worth,
Lies the key to heaven on earth.

He speaks in riddles, soft and low,
Of love and loss, of ebb and flow.
His sermons preached to pigeons’ ears,
And to the wind that no one hears.

From dumpsters, he pulls daily bread,
Shares with the hungry, breaks and spreads.
His miracles are small but true:
A smile, a kind word, hope anew.

No temples rise to sing his praise,
No followers to mark his days.
Yet in each act of selfless grace,
We glimpse the divine in human face.

O homeless messiah, prophet of the street,
Your kingdom lies beneath our feet.
In every heart that dares to care,
Your message lives, your love we share.

So let us see with opened eyes,
The sacred in these urban skies.
For in the least of these we meet,
The messiah walking down our street.