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  • This is Mexico City. It was my first time.

    I wasn't there for tourism.
    Actually, I went to meet people,
    And to tell them about someone.
    In a small room, along a street of small rooms.
    A city of brick, and re-bar.,
    Of sick dogs, and dirty air,
    Small amounts of clean water,
    And even smaller paychecks.

    On a hill where few people go,
    And fewer people leave:
    Families lived, alcohol swigged,
    Abuse sits, poverty gives nothing.

    In fact, making matters worse.
    A nearby volcano had recently erupted,
    Surfaces were covered in a light film of ash,
    Like black pollen.

    Yet tucked away you will find a few good homes.
    Welcoming smiles, and happy hearts.

    They lived in the same poverty, in that city of brick and re-bar.
    Despite all of this, they were not unlike a light in that city
    If you were to meet them you would know
    Because the thing that sets them apart was actually a person.

    Jesus Christ.

    They were Christians and I was there with them.
    In one of those small rooms we had a concert
    We invited the people.
    We played American music, mixed in a little spanish.
    Then we told our stories to those who had gathered around.
    We told them who we were, and why we had come.
    We told them about Jesus.

    I remember those days well.
    This city sat still in that moment
    And reminded me that all these things:
    The re-bar, the poverty, the drugs, the prostitution
    The alcohol, the dirty air.

    They do not disappear
    But some how everything becomes alright.
    I am sure of this, my story tells of this.
    This is what I love to do.
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