A Working Angel
The Working Angel
Last nite I had a dream;
It had a tale to tell.
I dreamt I saw an angel,
Poor thing, he wasn't feeling well.
His body was bruised and battered,
His wings ripped and torn.
This angel could hardly walk.
He looked so tired and worn.
I walked up to him and asked,
Angel? How can this be?
He turned around and paused (a bit)
Then he spoke these words to me.
These bruises are from shielding you,
In times both dire and ill.
Those alcoholic bouts and drugs you've used
I've often paid the bill.
You see my wings are ripped and torn.
A noble badge I wear.
How often they have flown you,
From evils unaware.
Each mark is it's own story
Of deadly wounds destroyed.
You've made me wish
--more than once--
That I was unemployed.
If only you could make it
Standing on your own.
Oh, don't you fret or worry--
But please try to remember,
I'm getting old and frail.
I could not believe all that I had heard.
Let alone how much he cared.
I wept upon his shoulder
Then I left him in despair.
The next day I sat and pondered,
Should I really try?
And in the distance I thought I heard
A frail old angel cry
~Author Unknown~
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