I hear the sound of babies crying in two neighborhoods I know.
In one, cabinets are like caves. The other packs an empty home.
One city street's crack dry. The other bends a fabricated smile.
Gates close like mother's hands in fear across a land, weak like a child.
Wind breezes by them both. God's breath blows leaves that touch curbs on each street.
His promise brings light to each stone. Rays touch the ground and have a seat.
No matter which block, God's care covers stains left by sin's weak condition.
And the saints that live in both fight to fulfill the Great Commission.
The same gospel, the same call, hits depressed hearts, and hungry stomachs;
The same Christ reveals our sin and covers the death that comes from it;
The same body stretches miles, ages, race, gender, and tribe;
And when the call of Christ brings us together we show He's alive.
When we become options creators, we walk side by side in purpose.
Unity from us could reach the hurting, sick, broke, sad, or shirtless.
There's a need in every heart for something only God can do,
And any willing saint could serve their city like James chapter 2.
So hands and feet could plant and work, and our land's needs won't go on silent.
If we work together Christ can move through his body united.
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