WE THE FORTUNATE

We the fortunate are not homeless,
Not like Him born King of Kings.
We have a place to lie and rest,
Not like Him of whom angels sing.
He was homeless.

We have somewhere to call home.
Not like the Saviour, nowhere to be born
But in a stable cold and dismal.
Animals to greet Him on Christmas morn.
He was homeless.

From birth to death we are not homeless.
Yet, through His life no home to lay His head.
Yet He will never leave us homeless,
We can go to Him for rest.
And never be homeless.

M Ann Margetson 21 Nov 1998 ©


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