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The Girl Who Could Be Me


Sometimes I’ve seen her …
Maybe at the mall
Pushing one of those carts
That always slants the wrong way,
Going crookedly,
Bent —
Like her own life.

Her face washed out,
Pale and pinched,
Hungry, but not for food,
Bearing a load too large to handle.
Then I look at her
And wonder why that isn’t me.

Sad girlI’ve seen her on the street, too,
In lots of different ways —
She’s not always the same
But she’s always,
Always lost.
Like some little child in a crowd
Of thousands of people
Equally lost,
Or just too busy to point the way
To become
I know her because I always watch for her.
But who is she?
She is the girl
Who could be me.

Sometimes it seems wherever I look
I see her,
Troubled and bruised; in sinful misery,
Wretchedly poor in heart,
Drowning in sorrow of mind —
Perhaps from what she’s done
Or perhaps
What others have done to her.

Sometimes …
When I watch her
I avert my eyes in pride
So I don’t have to see
Her pain
And filthiness;

Until God
With His two-edged sword
Cuts open my heart
And naked I stand,
Remembering that
There but for the grace of God
Am I.

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