The Ginger Man

Up above the hill of prayers,
The hill the people called ‘Bethel’,
Where people would climb to pray to God,
My lover guides me and upon and behold.

There on the foot of the hill,
Stands an old, weathered hut and in it an old, aged man.
Baskets full of ginger, he sat and sang and slice,
Washing and cleaning his newly harvested price.

He lost his wife explained my lover.
He is childless and bare explained my lover.
But not landless or homeless explained my lover,
Friendless and loveless, I added his picture.

Nothing he care that I Admired,
But nothing he had that I would desire,
His castle was falling straws and breaking tiles,
And his subjects were sold for his dying reign.

Did I pity this man of dust and age?
Do I feel his bones and pages?
Chains of thoughts, I felt for him less,
As I too have a soul heavy to care.

Lover I ask where I stand?
Same as His replied by our hands,
On the foot of the hill, equal in soul,
O Bethel we breathe, Beneath our God.

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