<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=389290" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>These Are (My Children)</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">standing in line at the mission, <br>they're ladeling bowls of steaming soup.<br>the winter wind whips down<br>between the buildings like a knife...<br>pulling tattered coats tight hunching.<br>and i can hear Shantideva whisper, <br>his hand on the ladel...<br>his body the meat of the soup, <br>his blood the broth...<br>'these are my children! '....</div><div style="margin:10px 0">they walk in long staggered lines, <br>refugees from the bombing...<br>hungry scared children clinging, <br>afarid to lose sight of...<br>what's left of their families.<br>nothing behind, and nowhere to go, <br>not on any side...<br>and i can hear Jesus whisper, <br>His life the torch that lights the way, <br>His body the shelter against the night, <br>His blood the water, His hands stir the rice...<br>'these are My children! '....</div><div style="margin:10px 0">the addict shivers, strung out and desperate...<br>the homeless family huddles in the car.<br>the young prisoner sleepless with the fear, <br>the old man going hungry feeds his bedridden wife...<br>the jobless young father begs to pick up trash...<br>and i know beyond all doubt, <br>my body, my soul, my spirit...<br>the wind that hears their cry.<br>'for these are my children! '...</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Eric+Cockrell">Eric Cockrell</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=389290" data-title="These Are (My Children) de Eric Cockrell" data-description="standing in line at the mission, they're ladeling bowls of steaming soup. the winter wind whips down between the buildings like a knife... pulling tattered coats tight hunching. and i can hear Shantideva whisper, his hand on the ladel... his bod..."></div> </div> </div>

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