Three Voices Under the Tent
The Hobo tips his cap with pride,
“Got calluses and trains I’ve tried.
I ride the rails to earn my keep,
Work by day, and porch-sleep deep.
No roots, but I’ve got tools and trade—
I mend, I lift, I dig, I’m paid.
A wandering soul, but hands that serve,
No need for more than what I deserve.”
The Tramp leans back with a half-lost grin,
“Work’s a gamble I rarely win.
I walk all day, might beg by night,
But labor’s not my sweet delight.
If I’m fed, I’m fine—don’t press me though.
I’ll sweep a floor if I’m forced to show.
Freedom’s fine till hunger speaks—
Then I hustle for a bite, not weeks.”
The Bum just shrugs on a sagging bench,
“Don’t talk to me ’bout sweat or wrench.
Why sweat when you can simply sit?
Let clocks tick by—I’m done with it.
No job, no rush, no rat-race run,
I drink the dark, I dodge the sun.
Don’t preach me worth through work and pain—
I tossed that script with yesterday’s chain.”
Three men, one path, three ways to roam—
All homeless, but not all without home.
One seeks to labor, one seeks to drift,
One lets the world pass like a gift.
Call it sad or call it free,
Each man walks his own decree.

God’s people are blessed!
Not because the pantry’s full
Or the roof holds fast in storm—
But because the soul is fed
By bread not bought,
And peace that comes without the norm.
Blessed are the poor in spirit,
Not the proud with pockets wide—
But those who trade their pride for prayer
And kneel before the Crucified.
Their kingdom is not built of clay,
But stands where moth and rust decay
No treasure made.

Blessed are the mourners still,
Who weep for sin, for loss, for wrong—
They will be comforted,
Not by fleeting things,
But by the Spirit’s healing song.
Blessed are the meek and low,
Who don’t demand, yet always sow
A harvest not of silver, land,
But mercy grown by heaven’s hand.
God’s people are blessed!
Not for jobs or fame or gain—
But for thirsting after righteousness
Through trial, joy, and pain.
For they shall drink from living streams,
And wake fulfilled in sacred dreams.
Blessed are those who bear the light
In darkened rooms, in unseen fights.
Their hope is fixed, their joy is sealed,
Their fruit is love the world can’t steal.
So if your thoughts first wander wide
To bank accounts or family pride,
Pause—return to Jesus’ face,
Where blessedness is not a place,
But a path—the narrow, holy way,
Where cross and crown both point the way.
God’s people are blessed!
Not for comfort, but for call—
To lose the world,
Yet gain it all.

The Hobo speaks, hat held to chest:
“I liked the part ’bout gainin’ less—
That kingdom stuff, the peace within,
The trade of gold for discipline.
I’ve worked the ground and seen it dry,
But faith… now that’s a different sky.
If blessing’s not in what I hold,
Then maybe I’ve been rich in soul.
Maybe my travels weren’t just stray—
But steps on some eternal way.”
The Tramp kicks gravel, half amused:
“That preacher’s got his head confused.
No house, no cash, no fancy meal—
And that’s the mark of blessing? Real?
But… I’ve felt something in the breeze,
In bread half-shared, in shaded trees.
Maybe there’s grace I never saw
‘Cause I was runnin’ from the law.
I ain’t no saint, don’t get me wrong,
But maybe mercy’s found in hymnal song.”
The Bum scoffs, then goes still a while:
“Don’t tell me heaven’s in denial.
I left that chase of ‘earn your worth,’
Too many lies tied to this earth.
But this idea—some deeper rest,
A peace that don’t require the best…
That’s strange. And somehow, soft and good.
Not sure I’d change if someone could.
Still—if God sees past what I lack,
Maybe… I’d let Him call me back.”