Friday, August 12, 2011


(written by Lawanda Doolittle Duarte)

There is a thing that has me concerned

As we travel here and there;

Something that burdens and stirs my heart

And makes me cry out in prayer.

You see, I’ve entered many a church

On a bright Sunday morn,

To meet a few, sweet elderly ladies

Their faces all leathered and worn;

Their silvery heads and teary smiles

Brighten the near empty pew

While beside them playing with crayons or cars

Bobs an illigit grandchild or two.

After the service they gather round

Sharing pictures of all of their kin

And I honestly say that I have a hard time

Distinguishing a “her” from a “him”!

Now they say that its really not that hard to tell

Who is Jill and who is Jack;

It’s just a matter of closely observing

On which side the earring is at!

As I stand and I gaze at the near empty church

A scene oft repeated again;

My anguishing heart cries out in despair:

“Oh, God, Where Are The Men?”

?  ?  ?  ?  ?  ?  ?  ?  ?  ?  ?  ?  ?  ?  ?  ?  ?  ?  ?  ?  ?

On Wednesday night it is not much different

Nor on Saturday visitation.

A few young ladies and a few old maids

Respond to Pastor’s invitation.

And that’s not all, the dilemma continues;

We are asked to speak to the teens...

I am met by blank stares, or rebellious glares

And whatever “whatever” means.

The girls look like guys with cropped hair and low waists

Chewing on gum like a cud,

Their faces all gooped up with colorful paste,

Or did they fall in the mud?

The guys are so “cute” as they “pony” their hair

Teasing with gel the curls,

With earrings and necklaces, bracelets and chains

Trying to look like the girls.

Is it any wonder our homes fall apart?

I sigh at the sad, sad condition.

The wives are bossy, rebellious and hard,

Refusing to learn submission.

So I stop to reflect at the state of our Nation

Being destroyed so by sin,

And I cannot but help to cry out once more:

“Oh, God, Where Are The Men?”

?  ?  ?  ?  ?  ?  ?  ?  ?  ?  ?  ?  ?  ?  ?  ?  ?  ?

If you’d but stop; look around the world

To that place away over seas,

You’d see a missionary, that man of God,

Down there upon his knees.

He’s so tired and footsore; he’s heartsick and weary.

So heavy is his load!

He cannot at this moment see

Light at the end of the road.

But do you know what he is doing?

He is praying for YOU, my friend!

Can’t you hear him as he cries:

“Oh, God, Where Are The Men?”

The Harvest is plenteous, as Jesus said,

The laborers are so few.

Does this not touch? Does this not concern?

Does this not bother you?

Will you arise and be the first

To boldly come today

And willingly answer God’s sweet call

And very humbly say:

“Dear Lord Jesus, take my life

Use me; Here I am.

My ALL, I at your altar lay;

Oh, God, Make Me A Man!”?


(Camp Victory, July 24, 2002)

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