Bessa McKaye Riyadh, Saudi Arabia

The eldest of five children, I was born and grew up in High Point, North Carolina. My writing “career” began at age nine at which time, my teacher suggested that I use the pen name Bessa McKaye, which is a slight alteration of my own name (Bess Tulia Mackey). During my high school years, I was active in drama. I wrote and directed several plays for my classmates and was acclaimed the “school poet”. I joined the Women’s Army Corps during the Korean Conflict and served in the capacity of psychiatric technician. I spent most of the time in Munich, Germany and traveled extensively throughout Europe. I recently won the President's Award for Literary Excellence from the National Author’s Registry.

The Beggar Who was that poor old stranger who rang my front door bell? I stood inside, the latch in place His face I could not tell. He said to me, in voice so low, "Please man, a piece of bread”; He stepped back from my door as I Vigorously shook my head. And then, he turned to walk away Each step he took with pride, The “ill-fit” clothing did their best To hide the man inside. He had almost reached the gate when I Said, “Sir, please wait a bit - I’ll fix a plate of food for you, There is a chair, please sit.” You may think, what a foolish thing In this cruel day and age To feed a hungry stranger, Who may be full of rage. But in my heat, I felt that I Had turned the Lord away; Because He said the least of these Would dwell with Him one day. As I prepared a plate inside I felt tears falling free For somehow in my heart I knew This beggar could have been me. But for the grace of God go I. My heart gave thanks that day. For opening my eyes, so full of "self” I almost turned Him away!

What Did It Cost? What was the price of the dogwood tree, From which they made the cross? I could not find a “bill of sale”, Stating what that tree had cost. The nails that were driven in His hands, What did they pay for those? And the spears that pierced His precious side Was not free, I don’t suppose. What about the crown of thorns He wore? It was not, given free. They pressed it down up His brow and He bore it, for you and me. I can’t imagine the price of a tomb, That wasn't His to occupy, But what a price he paid for us As He, the Lamb, had to die. If dollars and cents could pay for His love, If money could set you free; What would you give, just to hear Him say, “Dear child, Come unto me?

All poems Copyright © 1996 Bessa McKaye. All rights reserved.