Your best is yet to come

I met a man sitting on the street,
Begging for a little to eat,
On his face were lines of sadness,
A victim of modern life’s madness,
His face was lined with deep wrinkles,
Dotted with black spots in generous sprinkles,
He looked older than he should,
But I knew that’s the best he could.

I took out a note so that perhaps he could buy a nip,
As I handed it to him he held my hand in a grip,
Looked into my eyes with his
And he told me this:
He said, son you’ve travelled many roads,
And carried many loads,
Look how well you’ve done,
But your best is yet to come.

You’ve been through a lot,
And gone through many a tight spot,
You’ve pulled yourself from the mire,
Fed by strength and desire,
You’ve been better than these places,
Yet son, your deck still holds your aces,
Though you may think you’ve already won,
Your best is yet to come.

He let go of my hand with a smile,
An image I’ll remember for a long while,
As I walked away I felt an uplifting,
Perhaps an instance of God’s gifting.
I turned to look from whence the message had come,
But that old man was gone.
The rest of my life may have just begun
For my best is yet to come.