Cold and tired the poor man walked all alone.
An old wool coat and hat is all that he owned.
He walked up to the little church and opened up the door
They looked down the isle at him, at this wretched man so poor.

Where is the love of Jesus for this man who came in here?
Why didn't they offer to him a hand and draw him near?
Why did they have to shun him, and turn away from him?
This man so poor and broken, and hungry to love them.

The poor man walked down the isle and sat where none would stay.
He looked over with tears flowing as the church folks moved away.
He listened to the talk of love and the next soft ball game.
Then leaning across the pulpit, preacher said get cleaned up or stay
away.

Where is the love of Jesus for this man who came in here?
Why didn't they offer to him a hand and draw him near?
Why did they have to shun him, and turn away from him?
This man so poor and broken, and hungry to love them.

The poor man rose slowly and headed for the door.
No one got up to help him, after all he was so poor.
They didn't see the blood stains that scarred upon his head.
From the briary crown of thorns or the blood that he had shed.

Where is the love of Jesus for this man who came in here?
Why didn't that offer to him a hand and draw him near?
Couldn't they see into his eyes, the man that was with in.
Couldn't they see it was Jesus, who saved their souls from sin.

Written by Terry L. Richardson
Copyright © Oct. 24, 1999 TRichar384@aol.com