I saw a man trembling under a bridge one night,

Eyes half closed, soul losing the fight.

His hands were shaking like leaves in the wind,

But the deeper addiction was buried within.

He said,

"Brother, I used to chase the powder and smoke,

But the worst addiction was losing my Hope."

Because this world got dealers on every street,

Selling quick relief for a soul's defeat.

Some push pride, some push fame,

Some push pleasure dressed in God's name.

Some shoot ambition straight in the vein,

Some sniff applause to numb their PAIN.

Some smoke success like its Holy air,

While their spirit suffocates in quiet despair.

But the truth is simple if you look close:

Everybody's strung out on something

that promises Hope.

Some are hooked on money and material things,

Some chase the glitter of temporary kings.

Some run from their calling, scared of the cost,

Running like Jonah—still spiritually lost.

You packed your bags and ran from the call,

But forgot the baggage behind it all.

Miles may change, but truth remains—

The PAIN still rides in the same old veins.

Like my mower that smoked from too much oil,

Too many dreams can choke the soil.

Too much hustle, too much pride,

Too much running with nowhere to hide.

Life overheats when the heart's overfilled,

With plans God never ordered or willed.

But then one day I met a Dealer of another kind,

Standing quietly, calm and divine.

No flashy lights, no hidden supply,

Just scars in His hands and truth in His eyes.

He said,

"Son, I've got something stronger than dope.

I'm the only One dealing eternal Hope."

Not the hope that fades when money runs dry,

Not the hope that breaks when dreams pass by.

Not the hope that trembles when friends depart,

But hope that anchors the human heart.

I said,

"Dealer, what's the cost of your supply?

My pockets are empty, my spirit's dry."

He showed me hands where the nails once tore,

And whispered softly,

"The price was paid… on a hill before."

Because the greatest Hope Dealer ever known

Hung between thieves on a borrowed throne.

Blood in His veins, thorns in His brow,

Yet still He whispers to addicts now:

"Come unto Me when your soul's run dry,

I'll lift your head and raise you high."

So now I'm trembling for another reason—

Hope flowing through every season.

Hope in the valley, hope in the rain,

Hope through the scars and lingering PAIN.

Hope when the road feels painfully far,

Hope through the limp of Jacob's scar.

Because pain became the pulpit of who we are,

And God writes sermons in every scar.

So if you see me shaking tonight,

Don't think I'm losing the fight.

I'm just another soul who finally found

A Dealer whose Grace will always abound.

And I'm passing it out wherever I go:

"Brother… Sister…

You don't need the world's dope."

Because the strongest addiction, a soul can cope—

Is being forever strung out on eternal Hope.

— Maurice L. Calhoun