Tokens of a Tired Man

There was a man of youth and such who wore the dress of teens,
Of T-shirts, runners, baseball caps, and endless pairs of jeans.
His skin was smooth; his hands were fresh, just dirty from some play.
Energetic, so he was, and full of zest each day.
His hair was wild, and quite untamed; his face was still a babe’s;
His eyes – they sparkled with sprite and vim, and a smile upon his face.
His chin was bare, yet held out firm, his shoulders held up high
His feet with strength and longevity, his arms reached for the sky.
One Hallowe’en, he travelled far, separated from his home.
Few days went by, his parents gone, and now he was alone.
There he stood, his hair slicked back, and a tie around his neck.
His runners now were polished shoes, and his suit without a speck.
His shirt and pants were pressed and creased, not a wrinkle anywhere.
His socks were bought just yesterday. His books were free from tear.
He was the same – his clothing changed. New adventures laid ahead.
His energy seemed that much more. His nervousness was dead.

The day before Remembrance Day, a couple years gone by,
Found this man returning home, in an aeroplane did he fly.
His hands now rough and dark with tan, his knuckles scarred and raw,
His hair was bleached from the blaring sun; And bristles were on his jaw.
His face was sharp and weathered well, his eyes were closed in sleep
His shoulders drooped with weariness, his mouth did not peep.
His shoes were dull and scuffed with age, the soles were worn right through.
His pants were thin in the knees, and held a stitch or two.
His books laid down next to his side were worn and taped and marked
His vim was gone, but was replaced with strength found in his heart.

The tokens of this man were strange to outsiders looking in,
It seemed to them he was unkempt and far from being thin.
But there were some who, wise enough, ‘pon looking on this man
Would often see similarities of One from a different land.
Hands all scarred and worn with work, tired and sapped of strength
Reminded them of wounded palms and arms stretched at length.
Hands which blessed; hands which worked; and hands which knocked on doors;
Hands which shook; hands which clasped along with prayers he bore.

Tired feet and worn out shoes bore resemblance just the same
To sandalled feet on beaten paths of whom he bore His name.
Feet which walked; feet which stood in courage as he spake;
Feet which gave to knees which bowed as his voice did quake.
Tears that fell from his eyes and trickled down his cheek,
Reminded them of drops of blood shed by Him not weak.
Foolish men see what they’re not and hope they don’t become.
Wise men see what they’re not, but hope they do become.