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The School Bully
By Rod Ferbrache

There once was a boy, who was frightened of school,
The thought of it filled him with dread.
For t'was many a time he said he was ill,
And often spent days tucked in bed.
You see, there were boys who bullied and punched,
They roamed the playground in gangs,
Threatening, taunting, fearsome they were,
Even lying in wait in the lanes.

So schooling was wasted, so little achieved.
"Could do better than this," his reports read.
The potential was there, if only applied,
But too often alone, stuck in bed.
The years soon passed by, and a job was found,
Then in time moved on to another.
From growing to gardening, from bakery to post,
New skills were learnt without bother.
School memories faded, along with the hurt,
The family quickly did grow.
He little expected the time would come
When he'd come face to face with his foe.

The bully was seeking work for himself,
Some thirty odd years had gone by.
Yet when the victim set eyes on this man
He realised the hurt had not died.
Yet strange how the tables had turned around,
Revenge was an option, a choice.
The one who was bullied, helpless and dumb,
Was a person who had a voice.

Do I get my own back on this villain of old?
Shall I get even with him and be done?
Yet sensed if he gave in to a feeling like this,
It wouldn't be him who had won.
He felt the Lord say quite clearly to him
"Forgiveness is surely the way".
So the hurt he surrendered, the past put behind,
And a victory was won that day.

You see, I was that boy, and I am that man.
Thanks to His power I could forgive.
T'was His compassion that reached out that day,
As my motives I allowed Him to sieve.
Many experiences have I known,
Bereavement, anguish and pain.
None of these could I face in my strength,
But had to call on His name.
There are things in our lives which are hard to face,
We bury them deep in our soul,
But the Lords desire is to draw them out,
So our lives can be healthy and whole.
We can't treat ourselves, we haven't the means.
Lets learn to acknowledge this fact -
It's not always us that sort things out,
We must give God permission to act.

Copyright Rod Ferbrache.

(The poem is available to general media, publications and webmasters under condition that the author's name and the link to will be provided under the poem.)


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