An old poem that seems to fit....

Psalm 139

On a lonely street coner, an old man sits
worn, black leather held high in his right hand
the words coming from memory, he speaks
hellfire, damnation or salvation for the masses
of lonely people wandering in the heat of the lunch hour
words that barely penetrate the shade in which he sits
lots to the hurried lunch crowds, eager for relief from the summer's sweat
but unaware of anything more
Again, he speaks - the tired voice drones on
though not even a glance is cast his way
lost in the buzz of the crowds
but for a moment, I stop, listen
the words with little eloquence, but the sound is enough
a reminder of a past, a faith committed to memory
but not yet to heart

some days forgotten, I see the man again
and his tired persistance forces my attention again
I look around and no one notices the pause
only my soul for another moment listens
and somewhere in the heart of the suffocating city
behind the expressionless faces of the professionals passing by
burning in the heart of an old man on a street corner
there is God