The purpose of a life

After Acts 3:1-10

I see his hand, outstretched,

his voice modulated in supplication,

a voice practiced and honed

for years, and I stop and stare, and

wonder what his purpose is, why

he is here, for I have no coin

to drop into his hand, no alms

to soothe his plaintive cry. I see

his face and I know, that I am

to give alms of a different kind.

In his name, rise,

In his name, walk.

Rise and walk.

I pull him up, and the voice

is struck mute for once,

for a moment, that he can

stand, and then he walks,

and then he jumps and

leaps, testing to see if it’s

all some magic trick,

the power of suggestion,

and then he knows,

he knows it is real,

and when he knows

he clings to what

has healed him.

Photograph by Jonathan Sebastiao via Unsplash. Used with permission.

A prayer, answered

After Acts 3:1-10

Each day I’m carried

to the beautiful gate,

there to ask, sometimes

to beg and plead, for alms

at the hour of prayer,

my own supplication,

or substitution, for the legs 

that do not walk, the legs

that have never walked,

withered, atrophied limbs

useful only for dragging.

This day, the man with the dark eyes

hears my prayer, my begging, sees

my hand raised and extended, hears 

the plea, the pleading, in my voice.

Instead of a coin or two, he drops

something else in my hand: words,

words of command, a command

to rise and walk. He extends

his hand to pull me up, and I stand,

my withered limbs growing and

adding muscle and strength and

I am walking for the first time

in my life, walking and soon

jumping, my plea, my prayer

for alms answered, the alms

of healed permanence.

Photograph by Geetanjal Khanna via Unsplash. Used with permission.

The hour of prayer

After Acts 3:1-10

The ninth hour, or 3 p.m.,

the hour of prayer, the hour

to gather together. As they have

for years, friends or neighbors

or both carry him to the gate, 

he who does not, cannot, walk

from birth. And there, at the gate,

the one they call Beautiful, 

he extends his hands for coins.

He is a fixture, this lame beggar,

an expected sight at 3 p.m.,

the ninth hour, the hour of prayer,

the hour when many things happen,

his begging for coins a prayer

to others, who answer it, sometimes,

or ignore it, sometimes. His daily

carrying from home to temple and

back again is a prayer, too, 

a prayer to help the man’s lameness.

The two prayers merge daily into

one act, one plea, one supplication.

Photograph by Patrick Hendry via Unsplash. Used with permission.