The Wise Richman Poem by Patrick Utitufon

When I was a little child
Young in look, young in wits
Passing by a church gate
I often by chance
met an elderly man
knelt down
Praying face down
laying his supplications before the altar
Humbly laying aside his place
and possessions
without any beside him
to interfere

He would for a certain moment
meditate within himself
Eyes truly sorrowful!
And lifting up his voice,
he thanked his Maker
for His daily mercy and kindness
And then
with a contented countenance
he would through the aisle
singing songs of praise...

But I comprehended not his daily wailing
for not a man of his statute
would desire a thing
For he lacked not what many a man desire...

He possessed sheep, rams, asses, oxen, donkeys
in their tens of thousand
And many herds of cattle,
he sheared yearly...

To the poor
he gave with a generous hand
And never scorned the needy
Many were filled from his table
And never was he found wanting

Yet humbly,
he laid his supplications before the altar
And daily he prayed
And gave thanks to his Maker

As I too lay hold of thy cloak,
Here,
At this minster gate
Knocking on heaven's gate
for thy mercy and providence

O God my Maker
I beg on thee, do not pass me by
Hear me
Likewise strengthen me
Enlarge my coast while I live
And see the sun
Lest, the sullen world shall say:
'where is the god he daily serves'?