God is not dead
God is lost

He’s wearing a felt hat
It’s raining

He’s sitting on a piece of cardboard
Under the awning at Woolworth’s

The exhaust from a passing bus
Shrouds him in blue

He hasn’t shaved for a week
His hair is matted

You pull your raincoat tight around your throat
Step over his legs and hurry by

At the street corner you glance over your shoulder
He’s looking down at his hands

His head is bowed
He’s praying to you