Christ Lives was spray painted on a brick wall facing the alley. Bums sat underneath the graffiti, drinking cheap bottles of red, proclaiming it to be the blood of Jesus. Old moldy bread chunks torn apart represented the savior’s body.

They read from the book of John. Prayed and crossed themselves. Sang Amazing Grace. Drank some more wine. Gave thanks.

The mission had nothing to do with their kind. Heads of the church said they were drunks. Uncleansed in the eyes of the Lord.

Whores walked by. Men fished in the dirty river. Vagabonds turned two fish into twelve. There was no bed for them to sleep in. A stone for a pillow.

And they begged just as preachers beg. Clothes in rags. Lice in hair. Prison tattoos. A life nearly over. Waiting. They were just waiting.