by Walter Wangerin, Jr.

I saw a strange sight. I stumbled upon a story
most strange, like nothing my life,
my street sense, my sly tongue
had ever prepared me for.

Hush, child. Hush, now,
and I will tell it to you.

Even before the dawn one Friday morning
I noticed a young man, handsome
and strong, walking the alleys
of our City. He was pulling an
old cart filled with clothes both bright
and new, and he was calling in a clear,
tenor voice: “Rags!” Ah, the air was
foul and the first light filthy
to be crossed by such sweet music.
“Rags! New rags for old! I take your tired rags! Rags!
Now, this is a wonder, I thought to myself,
for the man stood six-feet-four, and his arms
were like tree limbs, hard and muscular,
and his eyes flashed intelligence.
Could he find no better job than this,
to be a ragman in the inner city?

I followed him. My curiosity drove me.
And I wasn't disappointed.
Soon the Ragman saw a woman sitting
on her back porch. She was
sobbing into a handkerchief, sighing,
and shedding a thousand tears.
Her knees and elbows made a sad X.
Her shoulders shook. Her
heart was breaking.

The Ragman stopped his cart. Quietly,
he walked to the woman, stepping
round tin cans, dead toys, and Pampers.

Give me your rag, he said so gently,
and I'll give you another.
He slipped the handkerchief from her eyes.
She looked up, and he laid across
her palm a linen cloth so clean and
new that it shined. She blinked
from the gift to the giver.

Then, as he began to pull his
cart again, the Ragman did a
strange thing: he put her stained handkerchief
to his own face; and then HE began to weep,
to sob as grievously as she had done,
his shoulders shaking. Yet she was
left without a tear.

This IS a wonder, I breathed
to myself, and I followed
the sobbing Ragman like a child
who cannot turn away from mystery.

Rags! Rags! New rags for old!

In a little while, when the sky
showed grey behind the rooftops
and I could see the
shredded curtains hanging out black windows,
the Ragman came upon a girl
whose head was wrapped in a bandage,
whose eyes were empty.
Blood soaked her bandage. A single
line of blood ran down her cheek.

Now the tall Ragman looked upon
this child with pity, and he
drew a lovely yellow bonnet from his cart.

Give me your rag, he said, tracing his
own line on her cheek,
and I'll give you mine.

The child could only gaze at him
while he loosened the bandage, removed it,
and tied it to his own head. The bonnet
he set on hers. And I gasped at what
I saw: for with the bandage went the wound!
Against his brow it ran a darker, more
substantial blood his own!

Rags! Rags! I take old rags!
cried the sobbing, bleeding, strong,
intelligent Ragman.

The sun hurt both the sky, now,
and my eyes; the Ragman seemed
more and more to hurry.

Are you going to work? he asked a man
who leaned against a telephone pole.
The man shook his head.

The Ragman pressed him:
Do you have a job?

Are you crazy? sneered the other.
He pulled away from the pole,
revealing the right sleeve of his jacket
flat, the cuff stuffed into the pocket.
He had no arm.

So said the Ragman. Give me your jacket,
and I'll give you mine.
Such quiet authority in his voice!

The one-armed man took off his jacket.
So did the Ragman and I trembled at
what I saw: for the Ragman's arm stayed
in its sleeve, and when the other
put it on he had two good arms, thick
as tree limbs; but the Ragman had
only one.
Go to work, he said.

After that he found a drunk, lying
unconscious beneath an army blanket,
and old man, hunched, wizened,
and sick. He took that blanket
and wrapped it round himself, but
for the drunk he left new clothes.

And now I had to run to keep up
with the Ragman. Though he was weeping
uncontrollably, and bleeding freely at the
forehead, pulling his cart with one arm,
stumbling for drunkenness, falling again
and again, exhausted, old, old, and sick,
yet he went with terrible speed. On
spiders legs he skittered through the
alleys of the City, this mile and
the next, until he came to its limits,
and then he rushed beyond.
I wept to see the change in this man.
I hurt to see his sorrow. And yet I
needed to see where he was going in
such haste, perhaps to know what
drove him so.

The little old Ragman he came to a landfill.
He came to the garbage pits. And
then I wanted to help him in what he did,
but I hung back, hiding. He climbed a hill.
With tormented labor he cleared a little space
on that hill. Then he sighed.
He lay down. He pillowed his head
on a handkerchief and a jacket. He covered
his bones with an army blanket.
And he died.

Oh, how I cried to witness that death!
I slumped in a junked car and
wailed and mourned as one who has no hope &
because I had come to love the Ragman.
Every other face had faded in the wonder
of this man, and I cherished him;
but he died. I sobbed myself to sleep.

I did not know how could I know?
that I slept through Friday night and
Saturday and its night, too.

But then, on Sunday morning,
I was wakened by a violence.
Light pure, hard, demanding light
slammed against my sour face, and I
blinked, and I looked, and I saw
the last and the first wonder of all.
There was the Ragman, folding the blanket
most carefully, a scar on his forehead,
but alive! And, besides that, healthy!
There was no sign of sorrow
nor of age, and all the rags
that he had gathered shined for cleanliness.

Well, then I lowered my head
and trembling for all that I
had seen, I myself walked up to
the Ragman. I told him my name
with shame, for I was a sorry
figure next to him. Then I
took off all my clothes in
that place, and I said to him with dear yearning
in my voice:
Dress me.

He dressed me. My Lord,
he put new rags on me,
and I am a wonder beside him.
The Ragman, the Ragman, the Christ!