Shall I, unthinking, pass him by
whom thieves have stripped and left to die—
base thieves of wickedness and greed?
I have the balm to meet his need.
Thought, gently lift him. Carrying
him to the inn—to sheltering
of Love—convey him where, through Soul,
he can be healed, be rendered whole.
Oh, could I pass him, I who owe
those good Samaritans who go
before me up the path ahead
and sometimes rouse me from the dead?
