Incarnation
No lullabies in joyous hearts
sung to unseen ears,
No mother’s gentle crooning
soothes these unborn babies' fears.
No glad anticipation
of what this child will be -
the future he will never have,
the triumphs she’ll not see.
Slaughter
These builders, artists, scientists,
formed to make a better day -
That plan will never come to pass:
their lives got in the way.
Wrong Sex, Wrong Time, Wrong Parent -
Is that reason to kill?
Convenience ends the lullaby,
though a heart is waiting still...
For a young voice calling "Mama?"
For the footsteps in the hall.
For a yard with dirt instead of grass,
for the crayon marks on the wall.
Sorrow
We're measured and found wanting
for those allowed to die
on the altar of convenience
while we passively stand by.
"A person's right to choose,"
we're told, "Stands above all else.
Besides, it's hurting no one,
since we're doing it so well."
"A truly victimless affair,
a blob of tissue, bit of hair,
a little pain, then life again
for someone in despair."
"No lasting harm, no ill effects
arise from this," we're told.
But tell that to the couple
with no child to ever hold.
Pathos
As for this aging nation,
Searching everywhere for youth
to keep the country moving -
it's time we heard the Truth.
Our leaders came, and were despised --
the timing wasn't right.
So one of three, we sent them off
into an early night.
These builders, artists, scientists,
formed to make a better day
Never lived to see God's plans fulfilled,
their lives got in the way.
So tell the nation's hopeless,
who lay dying of disease,
who wait for the discovery
that will give their lives some ease,
That the inconvenient timing
of the one to cure their ill
resulted in an early death -
it is Ourselves
we kill.
