Rex

Rex was a kind, soft-spoken man
Whom life had dealt quite a blow.
He had lost his bout with the bottle
And had nowhere else to go.
Was it shame, defeat, or deep despair
I could see there in his eyes?
His only goal was a bottle of wine
And solitude his only prize.

His hands were rough and calloused,
His shoulders; strong and square.
He made his living cutting weeds
At odd jobs here and there.
His nose and cheeks were ruddy
And yes, he stank quite badly.
He never asked for handouts
But accepted them most gladly!

Most folks just ignored old Rex
Or curtly shunned him aside.
No one wanted Rex around,
Let alone asked him inside.
Few men ever gave him work
Or accepted his humble bid.
But one man did. My father did.
My father always did!

Dad sensed the chains that bound old Rex
And he tried to set him free.
He would hire Rex to clear out rag weed;
Thick as Christmas trees.
He’d start out back in the horse corral
Or down by the big gas tanks,
With few possessions and fewer words
Rex would nod, and mutter, “Thanks!”

Rex wasn’t the fasted hand around
But he was steady, sure, and true.
He seemed to take pride in the work he did,
And it showed when he was through.
He kept a file in an old rucksack
So his edge was always keen.
A lot of men can clear out weeds
But he’s the best I’ve ever seen!

Dad taught a Christ-like lesson then,
Whether he’d intended to or not;
A lesson etched in my very soul,
A lesson I haven’t forgot.
And when I stand at the judgement bar,
And the Lord reviews my text,
I pray that He will see in me
What my father saw in Rex!

To my Father, a true example of Christ-like living!