WHO ARE MY PEOPLE?

         MY PEOPLE? Who are they?

         I went into the church where the congregation

         Worshiped my God. Were they my people?

         I felt no kinship to them as they knelt there.

         My people! Where are they?

         I went into the land where I was born,

         Where men spoke my language .

         I was a stranger there.

         “My people,” my soul cried. “Who are my people?”

         Last night in the rain I met an old man

         Who spoke a language I do not speak,

         Which marked him as one who does not know my God.

         With apologetic smile he offered me

         The shelter of his patched umbrella.

         I met his eyes. . . And then I knew. .

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