All who are thirsty?

If you want to know part of his story, look at his hands

When he pats your back the calloused skin snags your shirt

And you think about how those hands display a lifetime of toil

Hands like sandpaper that once tucked you in at night

And played beautiful music on the guitar

No longer open and close as they once did with agility

Day after day he went to work before the sun was even out

Dreaming of the day when he could retire

Dreaming of rest

Dreaming of peace

The house that was supposed to be his fortress

The one that he worked so hard to build up

That house is in ruins

His empire

Disheveled


You can lead a man to water

But you can’t make him drink


The health and wealth gospel tells him if he'll just believe

He would have abundant riches in this life

Like he could speak his desires into the atmosphere

And have them magically appear

Some would say that he has the spark of the divine in him

And that he just needs to realize this

Others would say that he is doomed

Treating him as if he has no chance

Treating him as if he were some kind of disposable human

Like those hands were made to just burn in hell for all of eternity


I see a man who is thirsty (for streams of living water)

I see a man created in the image of his Maker

Will He come to the Fountain and drink?

I do not know

But I will never stop praying

Lord, draw him close to You


You may see a heathen

I see a broken man

Lost

I see my father

And I'd like to think that my Heavenly Father is calling to him

"Sinner, come home."


Come home, Dad.