A Few of the Countless Multitude

June was given a girl's name,
but he never let the schoolyard bullies take it from him.
Instead he grew into it, and became the kind of
man who never showed up late for his kid's concerts.
Who always loved his wife, even when he didn't,
and who kept loving her, even after his heart stopped.
 
Lena was a girl who wanted to be a nun.
But her Baptist parents told her, only white girls get to be one.
So she grew up to be a nanny, never-married, but never unloved.
You could tell by how many flowers sat beside her on her hospital bed.
 
Max was a kid who didn't know what he wanted to do with his life,
till one day his right eye dilated,
and he learned he only had two weeks left,
so he spent the rest of his life, living,
and making every second a prayer.
 
They died like so many do, like the great multitude
with their deeds going unsung,
 
Just like the moms who spend every last cent on their kids trying to feed'em,
then go the whole day sucking on a button,
just to trick their stomachs like something's coming.
 
Like the little ones who work in sweat filled shops,
making designer basketball shoes,
for games they'll never play
in countries that seem so far away.
 
Or the men who grow up being beaten by their fathers,
and look to their kids with pride
because they'll never feel the back of their hand.
 
Though their deeds go unsung, they won't be forgotten.
 
Just like the street rats, alley cats, burnouts, dropouts, the bums,
the losers, the Freaks and Geeks, and everyone that's been stomped on,
 
who take every last stone that's thrown at them and tosses it over their shoulder.
because every stone they throw back comes back as a rock, then a boulder, then a bullet.
And every second they waste hating someone, is a second they'll never get back.
And every time they forgive, is another breath of fresh air.
 
For every struggle, and for every pain
for every tear, and for every gain
is another chance to wash their hands in the blood of the Lamb.
 
The same blood that beats through the veins of the martyrs,
The same blood that makes every person stand up to tyranny.
The same blood that gives every artist her passion,
The same blood that beats in every broken heart,
The same blood that runs down the alleys in every atrocity.
The same blood dripping from a Cross,
The same blood that beats in me and beats in you
when we ask it to.
 
And this blood stains your clothes white, and bright
brighter than a summer's day,
brighter than the smile of the girl you had a crush on in middle school.
And the whiteness doesn't fade over time.
 
So that in the end, when death comes knocking at your window.
You can greet him like an old friend,
like a lamb that's bringing you home,
like June, like Lena, like Max singing:
"Blessing and glory, wisdom and thanksgiving,
honor, power, and might
be to our God forever and ever. Amen.”