On a street that toils night and day
The name few could guess
Almost blasphemous to say
This street is a church.
The corner smelling of braai and piss
Beautiful holly array
Of people

Some battle in the fray
Some will go but most will stay
Listen to this street
Listen to the rhythm, of beat
Hear the beautiful unpracticed praise
No rehearsed worship
Here you hear the clamor
That speaks louder than the noise

For many, this is a place to fear
Some religious might see
Task, deeds, and seeds
The impure
And sell a cure
But these church doors are always open
Hoping and coping
There are more here than blind eyes see
There is safety in who you want to be
There is friends and good food
A man living Christ-like
A smile always bright an open seat
For the smart drunk and sad kid
Not broken but holy
Dangerous freedom and open arms
Forgotten voices and littered tar
Card box beds and newspaper blankets

Hustle and steel lost authentic and real
Children of god hungry hoping for a meal
With friends
This is a church that offends
This is not where pastors preach
This is where life is lived on a street as much church
As church could be
There is this Church where I stay
A street almost blasphemous to say
When I sit in the pews I know what
I will take away
Friends and Love
On this long stretch of street called
Church.