Mr. Brown and Mr. Gray
I have a strange habit: when I’m in new places
I search for a star, a cross, or a steeple
and visit the churches to pray with the people
and feast on the faith that I read in their faces.
And if it’s a weekday, I still go to see
the lay of the chapel, the stained glass, the art.
I sit in the quiet and search my own heart
for what God my Father requires of me.
On one such occasion, well into the night,
I lay on a pew on the very front row.
I’d rest a few minutes and then I would go.
I was weary and thought that it might be all right.
I’d scarce closed my eyes when the sound of a door
meant someone had entered. He came down the aisle
and knelt. I decided to listen a while.
I was well enough hidden. Of that I was sure.
“Dear Father,” he whispered, “I kneel down to pray.
I’m just an accountant; bookkeeping’s my trade.
I work for a man who is just. I’m well paid,
and in his behalf I entreat Thee today.
Two prosperous men hold the wealth of our town.
Their ages and fortunes are almost the same;
but, though equally rich, they’re unequal in fame.
They are Samuel A. Gray and Edmund T. Brown.
On the top of Brown’s Hill lives Edmund T. Brown.
His mansion is lavish, the largest by far.
Our town’s grandest landmark, it shines like a star,
a residence fit for this man of renown.
For Edmund T. Brown is our town’s favorite son.
His generous acts are proclaimed far and wide.
The playhouse he built is our town’s joy and pride.
A plaque on the wall lists the great things he’s done:
the opera, the dance hall. We owe a great deal
to this unselfish soul who asks nothing more
than his name be displayed on the wall by each door.
It is right we applaud his philanthropist’s zeal.
Embossed, etched, or pressed, in large print, never little,
contributor lists often start with his name.
University scholarships publish his fame.
In giving, Ed Brown never plays second fiddle.
The media laud him. Each sizable gift
is never unnoticed, but cheered long and loud.
He is willing and eager to bow to a crowd.
The honors, they follow, abundant and swift.
’God bless his good soul,’ all our citizens say.
The praise that they give him is certainly fair.
But I know the truth; it’s a truth I can’t share:
they should also be lauding Samuel A. Gray.
Not all that is good here is paid by Ed Brown.
Not all bears his name; or have they not seen
the park, the new clinic, the shelter, the stream
that once polluted now flows pure through our town,
the school’s new computers, the food bank, the fence
between road and playground, the fund to insure
that struggling families can hope for a cure
for children whose illness brings drastic expense?
Have they never questioned whence came the dough
that restored the school or this church where I pray,
or that made the endowment that continues to pay
so that mistreated wives have someplace to go?
It is Samuel A. Gray—the secret is mine—
who bankrolls these projects. He does them through me,
his trustworthy bookkeeper. Silent I’ll be,
while Edmund T. Brown continues to shine.
Seldom heard of is Samuel A. Gray, seldom seen.
He lives in a house at the base of Brown’s Hill.
It’s not very grand, still, it has its appeal.
It’s sheltered by trees, cozy, tidy, and clean.
My employer stays hidden. He likes it that way.
Contributor lists never feature his name.
Though nobody knows it, he’s there just the same.
‘A’ for ‘Anonymous’: ‘Samuel A. Gray.’
Good Samuel Anonymous Gray is now ill.
His doctor has told me he’ll soon surely die.
I don’t see the justice, nor understand why.
Please, Father, please, alter Thy merciful will.
Please, save him from death. Heal him; please, let him live.
Ed Brown has his wealth and his health. It’s not fair.
Show Thy power, Thy goodness, and rightfully spare
my gentle kind patron who knows how to give.”
Thus the bookkeeper pled for Samuel A. Gray,
assured God alone heard his prayer and his plea.
Unaware his petition was heard too by me,
he got up off his knees and went on his way.
I thought through the words I had heard the man say.
I pondered and saw things much different than he.
His prayer for God’s mercy should properly be
for Edmund T. Brown, not for Samuel A Gray.
For into my mind came the words of the Lord:
“Take heed that ye do not your alms before men.
Thy right must not know where thy left hand has been.”
If I give to be seen, I have my reward.
If a trumpet I sound, as the hypocrites do
for the glory of men, I’m already paid;
but if by my giving I hope to be saved,
in secret I’ll give; I’ll in secret be true.
For charity seeketh herself not to raise,
nor vaunteth herself, nor searcheth for fame;
but suffereth long while hiding her name.
There is nothing exalting in status or praise.
That He might raise us up, God first brings us down.
If by Him I am seen, I should seek nothing more.
If it’s true for the rich, then it’s true for the poor,
for you and for me as for Edmund T. Brown.
I resolved from that moment I’d strive to repay
God’s goodness to me as had Samuel A Gray.
I search for a star, a cross, or a steeple
and visit the churches to pray with the people
and feast on the faith that I read in their faces.
And if it’s a weekday, I still go to see
the lay of the chapel, the stained glass, the art.
I sit in the quiet and search my own heart
for what God my Father requires of me.
On one such occasion, well into the night,
I lay on a pew on the very front row.
I’d rest a few minutes and then I would go.
I was weary and thought that it might be all right.
I’d scarce closed my eyes when the sound of a door
meant someone had entered. He came down the aisle
and knelt. I decided to listen a while.
I was well enough hidden. Of that I was sure.
“Dear Father,” he whispered, “I kneel down to pray.
I’m just an accountant; bookkeeping’s my trade.
I work for a man who is just. I’m well paid,
and in his behalf I entreat Thee today.
Two prosperous men hold the wealth of our town.
Their ages and fortunes are almost the same;
but, though equally rich, they’re unequal in fame.
They are Samuel A. Gray and Edmund T. Brown.
On the top of Brown’s Hill lives Edmund T. Brown.
His mansion is lavish, the largest by far.
Our town’s grandest landmark, it shines like a star,
a residence fit for this man of renown.
For Edmund T. Brown is our town’s favorite son.
His generous acts are proclaimed far and wide.
The playhouse he built is our town’s joy and pride.
A plaque on the wall lists the great things he’s done:
the opera, the dance hall. We owe a great deal
to this unselfish soul who asks nothing more
than his name be displayed on the wall by each door.
It is right we applaud his philanthropist’s zeal.
Embossed, etched, or pressed, in large print, never little,
contributor lists often start with his name.
University scholarships publish his fame.
In giving, Ed Brown never plays second fiddle.
The media laud him. Each sizable gift
is never unnoticed, but cheered long and loud.
He is willing and eager to bow to a crowd.
The honors, they follow, abundant and swift.
’God bless his good soul,’ all our citizens say.
The praise that they give him is certainly fair.
But I know the truth; it’s a truth I can’t share:
they should also be lauding Samuel A. Gray.
Not all that is good here is paid by Ed Brown.
Not all bears his name; or have they not seen
the park, the new clinic, the shelter, the stream
that once polluted now flows pure through our town,
the school’s new computers, the food bank, the fence
between road and playground, the fund to insure
that struggling families can hope for a cure
for children whose illness brings drastic expense?
Have they never questioned whence came the dough
that restored the school or this church where I pray,
or that made the endowment that continues to pay
so that mistreated wives have someplace to go?
It is Samuel A. Gray—the secret is mine—
who bankrolls these projects. He does them through me,
his trustworthy bookkeeper. Silent I’ll be,
while Edmund T. Brown continues to shine.
Seldom heard of is Samuel A. Gray, seldom seen.
He lives in a house at the base of Brown’s Hill.
It’s not very grand, still, it has its appeal.
It’s sheltered by trees, cozy, tidy, and clean.
My employer stays hidden. He likes it that way.
Contributor lists never feature his name.
Though nobody knows it, he’s there just the same.
‘A’ for ‘Anonymous’: ‘Samuel A. Gray.’
Good Samuel Anonymous Gray is now ill.
His doctor has told me he’ll soon surely die.
I don’t see the justice, nor understand why.
Please, Father, please, alter Thy merciful will.
Please, save him from death. Heal him; please, let him live.
Ed Brown has his wealth and his health. It’s not fair.
Show Thy power, Thy goodness, and rightfully spare
my gentle kind patron who knows how to give.”
Thus the bookkeeper pled for Samuel A. Gray,
assured God alone heard his prayer and his plea.
Unaware his petition was heard too by me,
he got up off his knees and went on his way.
I thought through the words I had heard the man say.
I pondered and saw things much different than he.
His prayer for God’s mercy should properly be
for Edmund T. Brown, not for Samuel A Gray.
For into my mind came the words of the Lord:
“Take heed that ye do not your alms before men.
Thy right must not know where thy left hand has been.”
If I give to be seen, I have my reward.
If a trumpet I sound, as the hypocrites do
for the glory of men, I’m already paid;
but if by my giving I hope to be saved,
in secret I’ll give; I’ll in secret be true.
For charity seeketh herself not to raise,
nor vaunteth herself, nor searcheth for fame;
but suffereth long while hiding her name.
There is nothing exalting in status or praise.
That He might raise us up, God first brings us down.
If by Him I am seen, I should seek nothing more.
If it’s true for the rich, then it’s true for the poor,
for you and for me as for Edmund T. Brown.
I resolved from that moment I’d strive to repay
God’s goodness to me as had Samuel A Gray.
Poet‘s comments about “Mr. Brown and Mr. Gray”
We all like to be recognized for the good things we do. Praise is a basic human need. Yet, we are also required to rise above that need, because “charity suffereth long and…is not puffed up….” I always glance quickly at lists of contributors I see printed on programs or embossed on plaques, not because I am interested in knowing who is there—if the list is alphabetical, as it usually is, I never get beyond the “As”—but because I’m looking for one word, the word “Anonymous.” And once I find it, I smile and close the program or continue on my way. At the University where I teach, you’ll find in the halls of the administration building a series of beautifully displayed granite plaques engraved with the names of hundreds of people who have over the years made substantial dollar-amount contributions to the university. These names are grouped into six or seven categories based on the amount contributed, and each category has been given a catchy name. As is my custom, I searched each category one day for my favorite word; I was disappointed. I did not write this poem in reproach of those who we recognize for their good deeds, and I’m not advocating that we do away with lists of contributors. I wrote it only as a reminder to myself—and to others who have ears to hear—of the higher law. One thing I can promise is that you’ll never see my name anywhere on any list of contributors—unless it is without my consent—but I hope, if the Lord so chooses, that I might some day smile even more broadly than I do now when I see the word “Anonymous.”
