By Frederick Blanchard
Occasionally onto the waiting floor,
Silently falls a single crumb,
A morsel by few to be swept away,
Or graciously received by some.
To the hungry, thirsty, or forlorn,
For the ones in rags adorned,
In the moment, refreshment served,
Those in need, loved, not scorned.
‘… your Father who sees in secret himself shall reward you openly.’