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89116 Poems Read
The Wages Of Sin
Humans trapped by happenstance,
in bleak and bitter cold,
each one possessing a stick of wood,
or so the story's told.
Their dying fire in need of logs,
the first man held his back,
for of the faces round the fire,
he noticed one was black.
The next man was looking across
the way seeing one not of his church,
and could not bring himself to give,
the fire his stick of birch.
The third one sat in tattered clothes,
giving his coat a hitch.
Why should his log be put to use,
to warm the idle rich?
The rich man just sat back & thought
of the wealth he had in store,
and how to keep what he had earned,
from the lazy shiftless poor.
The black man's face bespoke revenge,
as the fire passed from his sight,
for all he saw in his stick of wood,
was a chance to spite the white.
The last man of this forlorn group,
did naught except for gain,
giving only to those who gave,
was how he played the game.
Their logs held tight in death's
still hand was proof of human sin.
they didn't die from the cold without,
they died from cold within.
Anonymous writing in my Mom's Bible…2007
I do not claim authorship but wanted
others to see this excellent poem.
If anyone knows who wrote it and wants
me to remove it, please let me know.
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