A bus driving down a busy street struck a Catholic man who had been standing at a bus stop, a tragic accident.
He was lying near death on the sidewalk as a crowd gathered.
“A priest. Somebody get me a priest!” the man gasped.
Long seconds dragged on but no one stepped out of the crowd.
A policeman checked the crowd and finally yelled, “A PRIEST, PLEASE! Isn’t there a priest in this crowd to give this man his last rites?”
Finally, out of the crowd stepped a little old Jewish man in his 80s.
“Mr. Policeman,” said the man, “I’m not a priest. I’m not even a Christian. But for 50 years now, I have been living behind the Catholic Church on Second Avenue , and every night I’m overhearing their services. I can recall a lot of it, and maybe I can be of some comfort to this poor man.”
The policeman agreed, and cleared the crowd so the man could get through to where the injured man lay.
The old Jewish man knelt down, leaned over the man and said in a solemn voice:
B-4 … I-19 … N-38 … G-54 … O-72.
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