Who Are You Boy?
(Poem to a Missionary from a Russian Convert)
Who are you boy? You journeyed to this land of ours.
This land where I have endured my days
And felt oppression kill my soul
And forced me into some tight mold
And teach me that I should not hope
Unless I care to smell the smoke
Of dreams that the Red Army tamed.
Who are you boy? From this land of plenty.
Teaching of God if there is any.
You have all, we have none.
Do you know what that feels like son?
And yet, you ask me to believe
In something that I cannot see,
Some force you say will bring me joy.
Do you know what that feels like boy?
Where you are from, faith is free.
But it has a price for me.
When I have pain, I have my bottle.
Hurt dies quick when you drown it in vodka.
That's enough to warm my soul.
I work, I sleep, the days go by -
I am waiting for the day I die.
You don't understand this place.
You say believe, obey, have faith.
Live life well, serve and give.
Here in Russia we just live.
Who are you boy? Why did you come
To save a soul who once was numb?
To teach a wretched, hateful man
Who cursed your help, refused your hand.
I thought that we were worlds apart.
So how is it you knew my heart?
A fraction my age, you calmed my rage.
Mercy paid my generous wage.
I should have been left behind
It is hard to love my kind.
Hope in your heart, power in your hands
Why did you come to this distant land
I know now, it was for me
The Red Curtain fell, but I was not free
Until a boy from nations away,
Brought me my Lord. I bless the day
He led me to weep at my Master's feet,
The American boy I met on the street.
New and naive, still in his teens
With a message to bring the world to its knees.
I thought that the truth would come from another -
I did not know this boy was my brother.