To A Samaritan I Owe My Life Poem by Madison Riffle

On my way to Jericho, I was robbed and left for dead.
Why did I leave Jerusalem, the comfort of my bed?
As I lay there in pain and blood, I could not understand.
Wouldn't anybody help me? Take my weakened hand?
I watched as the priest walked around me some time ago.
He just kept on moving, too afraid to dirty his precious robes.
So much for the love I heard him once profess.
Does he even have a heart in that stone cold chest?
From the man of the law I'd hoped to find my aid,
but I was sorely disappointed by the apathy he displayed.
He may not have been the one to rob me, taking all I own,
but neither did he save me. Instead he left me all alone.
As the day grew longer, I could not hope to live,
because any who walked by cared not enough to give.
Then came along a man I'd be taught to hate.
He stopped to take care of me in my damaged state.
It must have been the pain fooling my dying eyes,
but now to this Samaritan I find I owe my life.
He bandaged my wounds and carried me away,
took me to an inn and promised he would pay.
Lying there, afraid of death, I could not understand
how the man I thought should hate me, took my weakened hand.