The Man With A Gun In His Hand Poem by Don Dickenson

A man with a gun in his hand,
met a stranger one day.
“Why do you carry a weapon”?
The stranger enquired,
“As you walk through the length of this land.”
“My brother”
(without changing the length of his stride,)
“My brother met a man with a gun in his hand,
who shot him so that he died.”
“Now I seek to meet with that man,
and I go—I must go, prepared”
“With my gun in my hand I will find him”
“And no killer should ever—no never, be spared.”

“But who will the killer be, if you work your plan
Taking the life of the one who has grieved you? ”
“What do you gain, in the death of this man”?
“A widow and orphans who wont understand”
“Honour would break this chain of despair,
and whisper the word—forgive.”

“Forgive”? “You sound like that guy Jesus.”

“I Am” came the gentle reply.

The man with a gun wiped his sweat beaded brow,
Looked around, wondering why he had stopped.

And—why he was alone, kneeling in he dust.