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The Hobo

by Mark Spencer © 1992

I met a hobo late last year,
Waiting to catch a train.
He asked if I could spare some cash
To help him get to Maine.

So I bought the man a ticket.
Wished I could have done more.
He was hauntingly familiar,
Like I'd met him before.

As he thanked me for the ticket
I helped him to his feet.
The train was ready to depart,
And so he found his seat.

The Hobo took the window seat
In front of where I stood.
He would make it home for Christmas,
That made my heart feel good.

But before the train departed,
He got my attention.
And suddenly, this hobo's tale,
Gained a new dimension.

He placed His palms against the glass,
And there I saw the scars.
Each one was faintly glowing like
The light from distant stars.

I felt surround by God's love,
And blanketed in grace.
Revealing why this Hobo had
Such a familiar face.

He's crossed my path throughout my life,
Just slightly out of sight.
And when my darkness swallowed me,
He was my guiding light.

He often comes in different forms,
An average Joe or Jane.
But that day, He was the Hobo,
Waiting to catch a train.

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Please remember to mention the author of this poem when using.