Mighty and small they are beggars before me,
their faces allfrightened, beseeching, bewildered,
and hopeful of help from one more frightened than any...

I see their pitiful nakedness, their limbs twisted,
their bodies tattered, their blood on the asphalt,
their children crying.
They trust me to help them.
They know I will help them.

I see their illnesses too, in your big cities.
Their fevers, I feel as you dream at midnight in little towns.
They call to me whose hearts are aching
and whose dreams are shattered,
and they touch me with their weariness.

Sometimes they seek me who are simply alone and
who cannot bear the night, and I am their servant, too.

Fallen from tractors in fields I find them,
stabbed in dark ally's, shot on bright boulevards,
and in stilled cars they are silent and pale on cold rainy nights.
The crunching of glass under my heavy black boots
tells of my coming.
I fold them in blankets.

My beacons light up your streets as their babies are born.
My sirens wail echoes down your boulevards,
past your shiny glass walls, your stockyards,
and the quiet rural farms,
and your people look up from their work as I go by.

I fight the battles to keep them alive.
I thank my god when I win,
I cover their eyes, when I loose,
and they breath no more.

My partner is a hero, but no one knows his name.