Stained-glass Jesus by Bill Scarrott

I was sold when I was five years old
to a factory man from the city.
My sister was taken somewhere else
I guess because she was pretty.

So I don't know your stained-glass Jesus.
He's fancier than me;
all clean and colorful, I know
he's never worked for pennies.

I search the trash for trinkets I can sell
to buy food for my little sister.
The African sun without pity looks down
on my hands broken and blistered.

My parents can't be replaced
by your lofty stained-glass Jesus.
As their memory fades He remains
unreachable and graceless.

We can come once a week to worship
in choir robes and crystal chandoliers,
but Jesus is half a world away
in a garbage dump gathering children's tears.

I hope one day we'll learn that Jesus'
kingdom brings this kind of harmony:
That many who call him Lord will die
when the poorest first taste liberty.