We're
missionaries in Managua, Making our meager way.
We
take our tracts from door to door, In the rain and heat each day.
We're
down here in Nicaragua In the place they call the "pit."
We
preach the living gospel To folks who don't care a whit.
In
Nicaragua's sunny climate, The air is burning hot.
We
fight the heat and bugs and smell In a land that God forgot.
There
are roaches in our beans and rice. Our meat is clothed with worms.
The
water holds amoebas, And the air is filled with germs.
The
guerrillas try to kill us, And the Guardia point their guns.
The
people pelt us with mango pits, And we always have the runs.
Creeping
gamboo saps our strength, And Alt Fungus takes off our toes.
The
mold eats up our pants and shirts, And "Dear Johns" give us woes.
Out
in the colonias with bibles, Breathing and eating the dust,
We
tract from dawn 'til setting sun, And are too darn tired to fuss.
Each
afternoon brings a howling storm, And the rain comes down in a flood.
We
wring out our clothes and keep going, But we're only made of flesh and of
blood.
All
through the night bed bugs bite us. It's beyond anything we can stand.
The
mosquitoes inject us with fevers That leave us with trembling hands.
No
one knows if we're dead or are living, For we're orphans cast into this place.
Home
and love slowly vanish from memory, With the dreams of your bright, loving
face.
We
share rooms with lizards and spiders, But this isn't what makes us blue.
It's
being homesick and wet in Managua, Three thousand miles from you.
To
the very end we must endure it. The best years of our lives we will miss.
Our
sweethearts have all gotten married, And send us news of connubial bliss.
We
have talked to a whole lot of people And have knocked on thousands of doors.
Our
knees are all gnarled and battered From our prayers on hard dirt floors.
We
keep going no matter how tired, In spite of fatigue and disease.
We
may never get out of Managua, Until death grants our final release.
We
may live and may die in Managua, And then molder beneath its soil,
'Til
the morn of the first resurrection Sets us free from this land of our toil.
When
our lives of affliction are over, And we don't have to tract any more,
We
will gather for one final meeting On that heavenly bright golden shore.
With
open arms our Lord will greet us, Throwing wide heaven's gate he will yell,
"Step
right in missionaries from Managua. You have served your time in hell."
On
the wall of the Tienda Vega (Author Unknown, 1966) Submitted by D. Stevenson