A poem for a Russian Missionary.
By Michael Cox
Who are you boy? For a boy you are journeyed to this land of ours, this land where I've endured my days. And felt oppression kill my soul and force 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're from, faith is free, but it has a price for me. When I have pain, I have a bottle. Hurt dies quick when you drowned it in Vodka. That's enough to warm my soul. I work, I sleep, the days go by---I'm 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 do 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 that 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, 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.