Poetry

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Lord, hear Your disciple.
I cannot speak of You as others wish,
But only as my heart permits.
We go way back, You and I.
Invisible to all but me,
You cradled me in Your lap as I lay in my pink crib,
And You even let me bring my stuffed tiger.
You remember that night (need I ask?).
A harsh clap had prompted my ready tears,
And my gentle spirit, overflowing with unquestioning need,
Was more than a mortal father‘s patience could bear.
You smoothed my silky hair with Your calloused palm,
And traced the outline of my chin with Your rough fingertip
(Yes, Your hands have worked – should that surprise us?).
“Never mind,” You whispered into my bruised soul –
And You – along with a chorus of the unborn, the forsaken, the bereaved, the lost – You thanked
Your Father that even at that age – I could barely stand up – even at that age, I understood
The value of sorrow.

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