by Charles  Dale  Gray

Four days or so ‘fore Christmas Day
Nearby the busy motorway            
A boy of ten on weathered bike
Rode homeward bound -his post school hike

The streets were filled with traffic deep                
A mindless mass of migrant sheep                
Rushing here... and rushing there
Without a moment’s time to spare
 
T’was Christmas time they had to shop
There was no time at all to stop
No time to halt or slow their pace
Competing in the human race                

But uninvolved in all the fray
With thoughts of Santa on his way
A boy of ten with out a care
On tandem wheels rode unaware

The homeward boy had gathered speed
A bit too fast some have agreed
He tried to make the turn, but failed
Against the car, he did not prevail

His body thrown upon the ground
The mangled bike wheels still spun ‘round
The broken boy still in the street
Now lying in a lifeless heap

Although his body they did spy
The cars kept rushing quickly by
Veering round his body torn         
As if his welcome he’d outworn  

The cars along the road paraded
The broken boy still lay unaided
No one lent a helping hand
No one lived the great command

No kind word was said or spoken
To the boy whose body broken
Had now become a mere obstruction
To those professing Christ’s instruction             
  
And not to far, a few blocks over
Where once played the boy in clover
Paced his mother greatly worried
“Where is that boy? I wish he’d hurry!”

The silent house remained that way
No phone rang, none called that day
The haunting quiet seemed to say,
“The boy will ever be delayed”
 
And when I’d heard this horrid tale
My faith in man began to fail
Too few there are that lend a hand
Too oft we take a selfish stand

We turn our head and won’t get involved
Of things unseen, we feel absolved
And still his body torn and broken
Lay unaided as a token

Of where lies our true devotion
With our money-fame-promotion
Will man’s self centered search e’re find
He has in truth left God behind

While seeking after Gods of pleasure
We pass right by His truest treasure
He lay beneath our hurried feet
The broken boy,  his death complete
Now lies discarded in the street

Then I began to comprehend
The meaning of the words well penned
That Christmas Day, he heard the bells
Ol’ Henry Wadsworth’s song still tells:
 
And in despair I bowed my head
There is no peace on earth I said...
For hate is strong
And mocks the song
Of peace on earth good will toward men

 
THIS POEM IS DEDICATED TO LEE CONWAY BROWN WHO DIED AT THE HANDS OF A HIT AND RUN DRIVER ON DEC 21 1994- 4 DAYS BEFORE CHRISTMAS AND 6 DAYS BEFORE HIS BIRTHDAY IN MESA AZ. HE WAS ALMOST TEN YEARS OLD.