Fetal Life and Abortion:
Human Personhood at Conception
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Abortion (1973 -      )

A red, red rosebud was unfolding

Within its bassinet of green,

In wonder, there I stood beholding,

As though the hand of God were seen.


The sunlight sparkled on its beauty,

Through a drop of dew upon its side,

But now it is the sadness of my duty

To tell you how the rosebud died.


A little boy came swinging,

With hockey stick in air,

And sent the rosebud flinging

Broken treasures everywhere!


The poor rosebud was a living flower,

About to share its blessings here,

Transplanted fresh from Heaven’s bower,

With shiny dewdrop!  Perhaps a tear?


This sad, sad story is not saying

That all abortions show no care,

But I tell it as my way of praying

To save God’s creatures, anywhere.


Abortion’s Destination

We’ve muddied the waters; we’ve soiled the skies.

What else to destroy before the planet dies?

We’ve tattered the fringes; now for the heart;

We’ll kill off the people; we’ve made the start.


We’ve sold our one future to sustain abortion;

We’ve cannibalized our unborn beyond distortion.

We’ll replace the blueprint with one of our own!

Then await the harvest of the seeds we have sown.



The cruelest part is not the pain.

Or that the blood is shed,

But that the measure of ones gain

Is that a man is dead


The strongest truth is weakest when
It's stretched but little, broken then,
In the course of time.

A small concession starts the glide
From tranquil deep, to now a tide,
In the course of time.

But broken truth is saddest when
A lie is welcomed where it's been,
In the course of time.


Mother and Child

A breath-taking sunset or a symphony of sound
Are fainter in beauty than what can be found
In the smile of a child.

The highest of mountains or greenest of fields
Fall short of the beauty a mother's face yields
To the eyes of a child.

May you be that child, in whose smile can be seen
And whose eyes can perceive, you know what I mean,
The beauty of God.


The Foolish Clockmaker

A toy is given the gifted child,
An old-fashioned, wind-up clock.
Soon its parts are neatly piled
Like goods on the auction block.

Then one day the pile's no more;
The old-fashioned clock is back,
Looking much as it had before,
Except that its hands don't track.* 

Time passes; the child is older;
His tinkering led him to cloning.
Sheep for him? Something bolder!
He will produce a man by cloning.

Forgotten is the clock of fools?
Must his learning be done again:
That even machines have rules?
...Let the funeral for man begin!

*They no longer turn in the same direction.


Partial-Birth Abortion

By the fiction of a court's decision,
His painful thrust may make incision
Into the tender, unsuspecting child,
Just to kill, as savage in the wild.

Yet, savage does not kill his young.
Whence this crueler savage sprung?
Or how came he, his scissors wield?
Oh, God our broken race be healed!  E.R.


You were once living in a mother's womb.
What's so bad about that!


Lights of Life

The precious ornaments of life are two:
Childhood, which glistens as the morning dew,
Selflessly reflecting the light of others love!
And the "golden aged," as the stars above,
With inner sparkle, to engender life's increase,
The glowing embers of a life at peace!


Weather or Not

Seasons chill and seasons warm,
Often straying beyond their norm.
Yet, seasons have a centerline
For snow to come and sun to shine.

It truly would be hard to say
That chill November might darken May,
Or June might mildly warm December.
If this were so, would you remember
To smile each day, anyway?



When the flame dies out
And only a coal remains,
There still is hope!


Brother Earth

Magnificent lump of soil,
Stay your course,
You beat around the sun,
And mind your daily toil.

You are the measure of our motion:
Our year, your romp around the sun,
Our day, your spin of one rotation,
Our lifetime, a moment of your run.

But more than clock, you are to us,
The chariot of our ride.
Your careful speed assures us
The security of your stride.

A little less aggressive,
Your path would leave the norm
And bring us into contact
With the center of the storm.

A little more than needed,
Would bend us into space.
So, mind your speed, good brother,
And keep us in our place.


God Is!

From a timeless past,
Through limitless future,
God is!

From our conception to birth
And through birth to death,
God is!

And, through our eternity,
In His life and in ours,
God is!


A Collision-Course

A ship without a rudder
Or a man without restraint
Causes me to shudder
And submit this one complaint:

If, in the path of either one,
My life is not my own,
Let my fate by ship be done,
But not by brains unsown.


Celebrate Life!

Time is for waiting and time is for doing;
Time is for savoring and time is for ruing.
Life is a long line of time tied to time,
Much like words, giving sense to this rhyme.

Then, what?

The book is open and the pages turn,
Marking the time for me to discern
The cost per item of time soon spent,
To ponder the past, wherever it went.

The drip of water and the flow of sand
Can measure time that is now at hand.
But what of the day, when they run out?
That's the time to be thinking about.

To the Final Port

Unfurl the sails; the day is done.
Set the course into the sun
Of that most prized, Perpetual Day.
Then close the log: let the Record say:

"He ventured far; he played his part,
Battered some, yet firm of heart.
He changed the watch with steady hand
And trusted God to find that Land."



We call it authorship, the role we play
When something of ourselves we do or say,
Or make a product in our very own name.
"It's ours to trash or sell," we claim.

Authors have rights by their "something new."
(We've heard of copyrights and patents too.)
We sense that debt when we deal with makers,
As when we go for bread, we pay the bakers.

Authority belongs to the one who gives being!
This is the lesson, the rule we've been seeing.
In fairness to all, the greatest maker should be
The one who'll rank highest in authority!

Authority is imposed on the product when made,
When design and potential on the subject are laid.
Note: A thing will "work" if its author's obeyed,
With a good return on the price that's been paid.

God is the greatest of all the makers we know,
The Ultimate Author, to whom others makers go
For a mind, to invent and some being, to share.
Obey His authority and thank God for His care!



Quiet and efficient is the "mainspring" of the home,
Whose role is serving others, seeding fertile loam
For harvest by the others of whom she is a part.
The family needs its mother, as a body needs its heart.

Strong and patient as the noble pillars of a shrine,
Or a silent ocean-bottom which supports its brine,
Mother stands beneath the burdens of many daily cares,
Feels each joy and sorrow of those whose life she shares.

An anchor of faith for us, her trust in God unswerving,
Our mother lived her life, and made ours more deserving.
Through her gentle word and tempered style of living,
We reaped a fruitful harvest from her thoughtful giving.

Our mother has gone, before us, to "tidy-up" the home
Where our loved ones will reassemble, under heaven's dome,
To rejoice with God, Our Father, His Spirit and His Son,
Among the saints, forever, in the place our mother won!



"Be true, to thine own self be true,
then it follows, as the night the day,
thou can not be false to any man!"
Wm. Shakespeare

To live the truth, is to be authentic,
As when the hammer strikes the string,
And the correctly measured note appears.

The honest face does ever read the same,
An open-book with singleness of message,
Known to all, before the reading's done.

Loyalty to self can to all others profit,
As proclaimed by the observant bard:
Truth for self demands no less for neighbor!



Time is NOW         

And time is THEN.

But THEN isn't NOW; 

It has already BEEN,

Or is YET to be.

Time is WHEN?        

 NOW or THEN! 

PAST is not hard to see; 

The FUTURE is in store for me.

Now is the time IN-BETWEEN.



Hurrying air is oft' a breeze
And, faster yet, a tempest.
Non-movement is for air to seize
It's cherished time of rest.

Earth will turn and air will flow,
To meet the needs of all creation.
Who had said "To rest!" or "Go!"
To establish this alternation?

God has established work and rest,
And set the times and seasons.
He gave us Sabbath as the test
Against all other reasons.

There's time to pause and reckon
The rewards and price they cost,
And to note that visions beckon,
Lest the day is lost.



The Scylla & Charybdis for a man,
Two wrecker-rocks, are nearer than
His myopic eyes can see,
When focused on his ready "Me."

Scylla is the shoal which moans,
"I have no good within."
Or, just as dire, neglects to pose
The quest of good therein.

Charybdis is a sunken rock
Which the sailor cannot see,
Because of eyes already sealed
By the ever-present "Me."

A path between is the "Middle-Way,"
Safe passage steered by truth:
To know one's worth and be content;
Let truth, unbidden, speak!

Our many foibles tell their tales
To others more than self.
And, so, a revelation, then,
When the others speak to self.


Mother & Dad, Listen up!

It's a savage thing to kill a man;
Much more so, a child.
The more defenseless needs the ban,
Even in the wild.

What more to say of wanton killing,
The killing of a child
Not yet born, the cruelest chilling
Of innocence defiled?

What speaks the parents' broken life,
After their baby's lost?
It's a wiser thing to face the strife
And pay the baby's cost.

Help for you is a reaching-thing;
Others will do their part,
To reap rewards your child will bring
To every faithful heart.


The Unborn, Silent Members Of Our Race

My treasure's not at the rainbow's ending:
It's all around me.
That treasure's myself, a culture mending!
Open your eyes to see.

My future's not in myself, but others
Who will take their bow
When seen at birth to be my brothers.
Why not my brothers now!

Our unborn are busy, at a quiet pace,
Building our claim to be
A family of persons, the human race,
With confident hope of futurity.

Let's develop a future by saving the now,
Each silent family member!
Let's give them protection, taking our bow,
a culture of life to remember.


The World of Abortion

They stole a billion stars from the inky sky,
And a billion flowers from view below.
With saddened hearts, we ask them "Why?"
It's beyond belief!  But we have to know.

A smile suppressed, a thought not formed,
And helping-hands denied their start,
And prayers of help, the heavens stormed,
Are lost to us!  From us they part!

The family garden is a child's delight,
A survival-oasis for the human race.
But without the child, the day is night,
and a childless world, an empty space.

What gifts for us our God had given,
The full-range of talents for sharing!
By choice of some, the gifts are riven
From the meager supply of our caring.


Legalized Abortion

Empty bubbles? More than that
Are the laws for approving what's bad,
To establish, disguised, a poisonous vat,
The scheme of a people gone mad.

Those who partake of that deadly brew
For ridding themselves of their ache,
Find the rewards of legality few,
And the joy of their license forsake.

The nation whose life is that bubble
Will generate more bubbles in place,
Exploding itself to avoid the trouble
Of running an honest race.

Bubbles, once broken, leave no trace
Of the rich potential to squander
By the sly betrayers of the human race,
When into the jungle they wander.


The Roe v. Wade virus

Like a virus armed for self-destruction
Of the computer which plays its host
"Roe v. Wade" has subtly entered
Where it hurts the recipient most.

This virus bleeds the life of others
To enlarge the "culture of death."
"Roe" has poisoned the water of reason
And has severed its flow of breath.

The "choice to kill" does not make sense
When babies are the target of mothers,
and the virus obeyed, a computer betrays
Many million others.

The virus must go lest death be the goal
Of those who survive in this strife,
To kill, in their turn, their future,
Instead of living the "culture of life."


Abortion - 2002

It trashed our lives too long,
It must not go on forever!
Why can't we see the wrong
In the many lives we sever
From the rest of us!

Poor fools we are, indeed;
We blind our eyes to others,
Yet rob ourselves of needs:
The talents of our brothers.
Let the babies live!

Our present course disables
The plan of nature's God.
In its place puts fables
Which have become the rod
Of our destruction?


Casualties of Abortion - 1973

Thirty years would be the age
Of all whose lives were taken.
Lives were made an empty page
When first they were forsaken.

History shows our weakest link
When building up our nation:
Just as though we didn't think
When denying the baby's station.

The unborn baby is one of us,
In source, in life, in fitness.
Why, then, cut him off from us
And lose his social witness?

History will not write again,
Nor will parents find a voice.
No one speaks for them again,
These victims of "the choice."

Unless one sees a living God,
For whom all lives are dear.
Who hears the cry of innocents,
And brings them home in cheer.


To a Friend at the Clinic Door

I didn't know; so I didn't care,
With grief about me everywhere.
My blinded eye, my anxious heart
Made me feel like worlds apart!

I didn't reach, but someone came
To free me from the bonds of shame,
So I could listen and I could talk,
And, from the door, I made my walk.

"Help is near!" you'll often hear,
Spoken with love for your baby dear,
And for you, dear parents, also too,
To drive your loneliness from you.

And what people do is but a part;
God can make you strong of heart,
Despite mistakes, your life amend,
Strength ahead, will firmly send.

My baby now is my greatest joy,
Five years old, and fully boy!
His life unfolds, enriches all.
"Thanks to God and you," I call.


Abortion's Aftermath
(A prayer of healing)

The fruit of the vine
has been stripped,
And the vine has been

Only the blood of the grape
And those who drink of it
awaken in sorrow.

The pain of sorrowing
can give way to joy,
by the path of repentance
leading to life,
in the fragrance
of God's forgiveness.

"I have come that they may have life,
and may have it more abundantly." Jn. 10,10


Abortion Canceled!

Beneath his hand is a mother,
And a knife is in his hand.
An evil deed toward any other
Would pale before her stand:
"This is my choice," not seeing
What she would get in return.

Abortion was her way of fleeing
The path she'd chosen to spurn.
"But am not I my baby's mother,
Who's as worthy of life as I?
Yes! Baby is not just another;
My baby's my life 'till I die!"


Abortion, No!

I didn't know; so I didn't care,
With grief about me, everywhere!
My blinded eye, my anxious heart
Made me feel like a world apart.

I didn't reach; but someone came
To free me from the bonds of shame,
So I could listen and I could talk.
And from that door, I made my walk.

"Help is near!" you'll often hear
Spoken with love for your baby dear.
And also for you, dear mothers, too,
To drive your loneliness from you.

And what people do is but a part;
God can make you strong of heart,
Despite mistakes, your life amend,
Strength ahead, will firmly send.

My baby  now is my greatest joy,
Five years old, and fully boy.
His life unfolds, enriches all.
"Thanks to God and you!" I call.



As oak, from tiny acorn, takes its rise,
A people must esteem its youth, to prize
A faithful history of their prudent living, 
In this gift of self, their future giving.

And youth must treasure this sacred trust,
By nurturing self, in a pattern which must
Echo the wisdom and love of the "spring,"
From God and parents, pure water may bring!


New Year's Day

Four seasons of a year
Have gone.
And, now,
A new beginning,
To mark the path
Of Nature's round,
And connect the future
With the past.

Winter's drear 
Is balanced out,
When Spring's warm winds
Invite new growth,
While faults are mended
From last Summer's crop,
To enrich this Autumn's


Our Sun

Key servant of the Lord's creation,
We daily rise with you.  Elation!
Light and warmth, our body takes;
Your presence, bright, our spirit makes.

You vanquish night and scatter gloom,
Replenish hope, and give us room,
We, growing children, as we play.
Thank you, friend, for another day!

In ancient days, with simple people,
You were granted a godly steeple;
So kindly beneficent your presence is,
You reflect the goodness which is His. 




Reading "The Log"

A battered hulk, a "rusty bucket,"
Or a polished liner, sleek and trim,
Each will run its final voyage;
Each will log a "sink" or "swim."

The future's veiled, but this is certain:
Material things will run a measured race.
Hope of lasting is for things of spirit,
As the light that's gleaming in your face.

Goes the face, where will the lightness stay?
Spirit's found where one's inner-self will be.
More-so than passing memory of a valiant ship,
Yourself, the master of the ship, you'll  see.

Reporting, finally, to your ship's Designer,
At the "reading of the log" you'll rest content,
If, knowing that you've "steered your courses"
Faithful to the "compass points" of His intent. 




We wait so long for Spring to come;
Are buoyed by hope; we grumble some.
Its sureness of coming gives relief,
Comforting salve for impatient belief.

Springtime comes most oft' so coyly,
Not always as the calendar, so loyally.
But, despite its teasing, gives the joy
Of growing into Summer, as man from boy.

The carefree day of summer blithely goes.
Autumn, with its brilliant color, glows
To alert us for the somber days of rest,
Which start, once more, our endless quest.



Birds can fly, and airplanes too.
But planes don't fly as birds can do!
The bird responds to nature's call;
Planes, without pilots, fly not at all.

The bird, itself, is pilot and craft,
Spanning the distance on airy draught,
Lifting and steering, moving ahead,
Its engine and purpose, by nature, are fed.



There's a world of things not made by man:
The forest and the trees,
The mountain, plain and sky.
Or little things, like these:
Clouds and birds that fly.

There's a world of things just made for us:
Food to eat and air to breathe,
(And, now, a one that's neat!)
The friend we cannot leave,
And even the stranger we meet.

There's a world of things we owe to God:
To respect our every neighbor,
And, in our lives, employ
Our common-sense to labor
And live our lives in joy.


Sept. 11th: Shock and Indignation

In Twin Towers, today, a carefree multitude of people,
Busy with the needful tasks of life,
Were robbed of life.

And other people, too, "secure" in aircraft's womb,
Were made to be the human-bomb of death.
Their lives ended too.

Some take it on themselves to end the lives of others.
To smash their bonds with self and kin. 
We, rightfully, protest.

Terrorists deprive innocents of their space and life, 
Attacking, by stealth, their victims,
To fill their own need.

Some terrorism comes more quietly, in hidden forms,
Noting that abortion's not the least of those
Which plague us here and now.

There must be other ways to live our lives,
Without the "need" to kill.
Give it thought, today!



The Need to be Somebody

In early days, I scarcely knew
Myself to be, apart from you.
Then wakened I, one day, to see
That you are you, and I am me.

I felt that voice within me say,
"Should I not rule myself today?"
I sallied-forth to test the urge:
Rule of others, my life I'd purge.

It sometimes worked, but often not.
I think, in doing, I learned a lot:
There's place to do the solo-thing,
Even when answering another's ring!

It seems that obeying another's will
Can, just as surely, "fill the bill."
Choosing to do, and not doing to choose,
Growth I gain, and childishness lose.


Our Unborn Speak

Respecting it as Father,
The citizens of our land
Hold our Country sacred
When in loyalty they stand
For one another's freedom
And they, their own, demand.

Our Country doesn't follow
The same, fair rule as this.
Failing to save some brothers,
There is something far amiss:
We are "in place" for others,
But, toward unborn, remiss.




It's good to give! And give I must, 
To raise my brother from the dust.
The thrifty spendings that I do
Buy life for him, and mine renew.


Lift Up Your Hearts!

A king, proclaimed by his people all,
Can graciously stoop to a beggar's call.
But a beggar can hardly smile for a king,
'Till he looks on himself as a dignified thing.
And even a beggar has dignity - some!
But, failing to know it, his dignity's dumb.



A bell can speak of many things,
And people listen when it rings!
We start the day, alarm-clocks ringing,
Called to church, for praises singing.
We announce ourselves at neighbor's door
Or, through the phone, most often more.

The bell is joyful at a wedding;
Slowly it peals, at final bedding;
It senses the mood of beating heart!
It marks the end; it marks the start
Of life's great moments, for each one
To share with neighbors what is done.

Our steeple bells uplift the heart,
And tell the day or night it's part.
Cowbells and bluebells adorn the field;
Buoy-bells' clanging safe-passage yield.
Some bells can "tinkle," some can "bong:"
Those silver bells, and that copper gong.



From the busy bee, we learn:
When busy by himself, to earn
The survival of his hive, 
He keeps himself alive!

Further yet, he serves the plant
Which hosts the meal that can't
Be found in any other source.
Nature is at work, of course!



The soaring bird, in the azure sky,
Is master of his fate.
His rising and his dipping buy
For him, his dinner plate.

We look with envy at his ease
In swooping to his prey,
A rich reward for him to seize,
His hunger to allay.

Hungry, too, we also soar, 
On draughts of heated air,
Seeking truth and nothing more,
Oft' find the cupboard bare.

But, for the once in many,
When the truth is found,
Its rich delight bests any
Of the nourishments around!




The Whole Truth

Is the mind free? Does it know no bounds,
As has the ear, with its range of sounds?
If the mind has limits, it would not be strange
That the whole of truth is beyond its range.

Truth limits the mind to things as they are.
But some things in life may be deeper, by far,
Than the mind, if it has limits, is able to see.
The question is, now, "How deep can things be?"


Our Creator speaks

Birds' song and thunder, voices of God,
Bring symphony to His works of creation.
Babbling brooks and fretting infants
Tell of His sharing with all.

Birds sing to mates, and for warning;
Yet we, non-birds, delight in their call.
No mystery in having two values,
When seen as the voices of God.

Cocophany of crickets, roar of the surf,
Varied of purpose, speak but one word:
We are part of a universe, never alone,
As we harken to the voices of God!



Friendship owes the privilege of sharing 
Even the bittersweet pains of caring:
Of worry for each other.

Strange it is that a thief arises 
To steal this good which each one prizes,
Yet, mindlessly, denies the other!

Each aims to spare the other pain,
But suffers loss instead of gain,
Because love is sharing.



By a spin of the earth
God made day and night.
But what is the spin worth,
If the sun were not bright?

We can approach, 
Or retreat from a light.. only if
There is a light!


Being Human

A single pebble stirs the total lake,
When dropped into its center.
It's an empty gift if no others take 
Occasion of its circles, to enter!

Two small stones, in different places,
Dropped on the lake, their circles make,
This time, forming some happy faces
Where ripples of each, in the other's partake.



We're "standing-tall" in reaching out to neighbors,
A noble, native debt which must be paid!
We cleanse the world with unselfish labors
And renew the foundations on which it was laid.

We're "standing-tall" when, on our knees,
We reach to God for sight,
To own the sense which always sees
Our neighbor in His light!


And Then, What?

The book is open and the pages turn,
Marking the time for us to discern
The cost per item of time soon spent,
To ponder the past, wherever it went!

The drip of water and the flow of sand
Can measure time which is now at hand;
But what of the day, when they run out?
That's the time to be thinking about.


You and Me

Every age has its poets
And its gangsters,
Those who leave their marks
In the crust of the earth.
But ordinary people, too!

Each of  us inhabits
A portion of the whole
Of human history,
A part of time unshared
By any of the past
Or of the days to come.

In stone age or in plastic,
There runs a common thread
For linkage of the "you & me:"
Each is for himself,
Yet, for all the people,
By the plan of his Creator.

If I should not have lived,
Or because I have,
What affect the past or future?
Let history tell of that.

But what it is to me,
My life,
And what it is to God,
History is not needed!


The "Now Generation"

Being busy with the moment,
We fail the backward glance.
The world, then not attended,
Is, sadly, left to chance.

Not minding where we came from, 
We have no sense of history.
What hope, then for a future
In a world alit with mystery!


Stop and Think!

Our capacity to know and feel is small, 
Considering the size of the world & all!
We can use it up, or we can use it well
To find ourselves, or to "buy and sell."

If time should flee before our knowing,
Not aware that our lives are flowing,
Let's try to marshal our own command
And not be pawns at the others' demand.

Let's see ourselves when the power's down
And "nothing to do" goes beyond the frown
To give us fright at how empty we've been,
Let's begin our life;  let's live as men!


Before and After The Sun

From the Eastern Bottom of the earth,
Daylight is squeezed
From the invisible tube of darkness
And, slowly, but triumphantly, 
Floods over the entire sky,
And cascades down upon the earth....

At eventide, our daylight
Hesitates magnificently,
As it sinks 
Into the drain-hole
At the Western Bottom of the earth....



The strongest truth is weakest when
It's stretched but little, broken then,
In the course of time.

A small concession starts the glide
From tranquil deep, to now a tide,
In the course of time.

But broken truth is saddest when
A lie is welcomed where it's been,
In the course of time.



A star is bright as dark the night,
Though it's shining full forever.
So, joy is keen when sorrow's seen;
To the one, gives relish the other!

If one has health, it's seen as wealth
By those who much have suffered.
Contrast is great when crooked is straight
And when warm is the measure of coolness.

All are not same, whatever the name,
If the name's all they have in common.
It's the stuff that counts,
Not the slogan he mounts,
When a salesman displays his wares!


The Price of Truth

In the noise of drink and dancing
And of foolish promise made,
Too spineless to retract his boast,
Herod killed a saint.

No cast of dice by fickle fate,
This gavotte of death would be;
His mistress was the "schemer,"
He, the "patsy" of the plot.

Governor  "sold" to governed
The keys of life and death,
As courts "give" to a mother
The "right" to kill her child.

"Hell has no fury," sang The Bard, 
"Like that of a woman scorned."
John paid for disapproving
The making of wrong, a "right."

Instant death for The Prophet!
Would not be prize enough;
A trophy, yet, was needed 
To vindicate the sting.

"Liberated women" savor "choice,"
In their conquest over men;
"His severed head!" she ordered,
Served on a kitchen plate.

Times have changed but little, 
Between Herod's day and ours,
In cases where this saying fits:
"Cherchez la femme!"



The dove sits lightly on its perch,
Though a world rests on its shoulders.
If dart it must, our world is shaken;
If die it can, the orb is shattered.

A gentle bird, a strict ecology demands,
An environment of harmony and order:
The smallest factor to its role be true,
To win the whole by helping of the parts.

With fingers full of Chemistry & Physics,
Grosser things of life we "keep in line:"
The material of our tangible surroundings.
A finer thing, our humaneness, we often fail.

Do human actions have no rules, no plan,
To keep us one with self and neighbor?
Or is the mischief in our willingness
To want what tears asunder?

Rather, do our choices, seen too close,
Blind us to their faithful consequence,
So that our wish is not to want the whole
Which reigns without our bidding?

As I do, by my choices, threat the bird,
So my nation and my world will shake
The unsteady perch from which it serves,
And loosen its grip on the twig of sanity.

The King of Peace is needed much
To guide our hand, in reaching out
When storms of self are raging,
To stay the fragile branch.


Truth vs. Error

A bullet sped into the head 
Is not called back by thinking:
"A lethal cup, once hoisted up,
Is rendered safe by drinking."


Your Life
(The Silver Cord)

A fragile filament suspends a treasure
Over the gaping jaws of a deep abyss,
As was the fabled sword of Damocles,
Perilously sustained by a hair.

Your life is that treasure, one of a kind,
Stayed by the delicate chain of its needs,
Where each tiny link could condemn the rest
By the degradation of its noble instinct.

From Ecclesiastes, 12:6-7, as follows:

"Before the silver cord is snapped
And the golden bowl is broken
And the pitcher is shattered at the spring
And the broken pulley falls into the well
And dust returns to the earth as it once was
And the breath of life returns to God who gave it."

Where a bubble of air could snap the tie,
What's to be said of street-gang violence,
And to odds of survival in highway traffic,
Or the sad mystery of self-extermination?

The thread, once broken, has no repair.
How careful, then, its keeping:
Parents guard the tender years,
And each, his own, thereafter.

With mind to guide, one chooses best
Each daily course of action,
And leaves to chance the other things
Which bear upon survival.

Our Creator gives this fragile gift,
And strives to help it flourish
Through care by each entrusted one,
And by willing, caring neighbors.

To live our lives is challenge.
Yet, we need not go alone,
For God is at work within us,
As we travel His path toward Home.



In morning sunshine the poor are 'riched
When humble grasses wear their jewels!
Diamonds, yes, and rubies  too, and emeralds?
No! Each drop is all, and more than, these,
But only for the moment when the eye is right
To catch rich offerings from the sun,
As dewdrops sort the brilliant light
And speak of beauty in its place of birth.




I wept with Rachel in Rama,
As she reached for her children in vain.
And I mourned with the Hebrew mothers,
In the days of Pharaoh, the king.

My sobbing resumed in Herod's reign,
When a Child had threatened his throne.
A modern tyrant unleashed my tears
When he slaughtered the children of Jews.

And I weep today at "the silent scream"
Of the helpless babe in the womb,
Whose natural expectance of life in the world
Is, unnaturally, brought to an end.

Babies were pawned for tinseled thrones,
And, though Moses and  Jesus survived,
Could not the cost of abortion increase,
If even one savior were lost!


Partial-Birth Abortion

By the fiction of the court's decision,
His painful thrust may make incision
Into the tender, unsuspecting child,
Just to kill, as savage in the wild.

Yet, savage does not kill his young.
Whence this crueler savage sprung?
Or how came he, his scissors wield?
Oh, God, our broken race be healed!


Baby Blaze

From a tiny seed, an oak is growing,
Needing but love, from time of sowing.
Now a seedling, on the way to a tree,
The hope of nations, if we'd try to see!

The greatest work of nature is the child,
Dependent now and, in manners, mild.
He'll rule the world in place of those
Who guide it now toward its last repose.

The growing child speaks self-reliance,
Yet knows to bend in wise compliance
To parental love, to the elders' leading,
While forming paths of ones own heeding.

The world may crumble in its final day,
Yet, the child survives, outlives its play.
For man is the purpose of this earth,
Preparing him now for his final berth.

Nature, alone, does not prompt this feat,
For nature, too, serves that Highest Seat,
Our loving Creator, who invites us to share
His trail of goodness which leads us there. 


Is it not enough that all shall die,
In the course of time?
Or must we kill, to live the lie
That any life is mine? 


The Helping Hand

A wetted hand can best be dried
By making wet the other.
What helping hand has never tried 
To avoid the role of brother!

Walk the path of the hurting one,
To sense the depth of need.
Then your help is well begun;
You've planted a growing seed.



Feeble light, at night-time,
Speaks its greater role
By tempering the darkness,
As body bends to soul.

To move oneself is triumph
From within the living thing,
A self-contained endeavor
Which life, alone, can bring.

It's Nature's noble giving:
To move oneself, to live,
Impressing life on others,
To receive and, yet, to give.

Life is the precious treasure
Entrusted to our care,
Like flickering flame of candle,
Which must be nurtured there.

Our thanks for  life is given
When 'ere we use it well,
Reflecting love which made it,
To God, our Anthems swell. 



The cruelest part is not the pain,
Or that the blood is shed,
But that the measure of ones gain
Is that a man is dead......


 Abortion's Folly

A feeble thread of green, uprising
From the reservoir of moistened soil,
Foretells a history not surprising,
Unless some mischief should its purpose foil.

The largest oak, the smallest weed,
Each enter our view from such a start.
Yet neither plant betrays the seed
Of which it was a part.

The seedling grows as oak or weed,
Because it is that kind of thing.
For each, their parents fill that need,
When to the offspring, their nature bring.

(Every seed contains a baby plant,
With tiny lunchbox filled, to start its journey.
Then, like a toddler, with pail and shovel,
Scoops its further nourishment from the earth.)

Fighting upward, onward through the crust and sky,
With natural stretch, to reach for God, its Source,
It magnifies itself before the Approving Eye,
With compass set, to guide its course.

Flower and fruit will come in time,
If nature is not impeded......
Especially sad is the broken "Thine,"
Because fruits and flowers are needed. 


It's Time To Know

People are hurting, in self and in others:
A mother-less child and a child-less mother,
Bodily pain, and death-dealing emotion:
The sense of loss, with no healing lotion.

There's natural disaster, and war and crime,
So many lives crushed before their time:
Industrial accidents, and on highways too,
Where trysts with death are nothing new.

There's deliberate killing of the yet unborn,
When a living child, from the womb is torn.
But the other killings cost twice that price,
When killer is killed, by the toss of the dice.

This is our life, but it's not always well seen,
When awareness is blunted, and the senses lean
On this moment only, not on future or past,
As though there were neither a first nor a last.

Could things be different, or ever had been?
Would conditions improve if we acted as men
And wanted to change the dark-side of life,
By facing the truth and dissolving the strife?

Where is the "blueprint?"  What's the design?
Are we rooted in evil, or in roots benign?
And what are we doing that adds to our woe?
It's time to ask!  It's time we should know!


Holy Innocents

Martyrs are those who pay the price
So that good, from evil, might entice
A vindication of our need for order
Against encroachments along its border.

Foul breath of evil, masked as good,
Reeks, unnoticed, as though it could
Become the atmosphere of every people,
Natural to us, as a church its steeple.

The downward slide of culture's norm
Seems never slowed by a mild reform.
Just as the pendulum stays its course,
So must evil's pattern spend its force.

To reverse this trend a stress must bear
In equal measure with the evil there,
When revulsion from its stinking stench
Calls a people, from its rot, to wrench.

When killing babies before they're born,
(From a healthy womb, a child is torn.)
Killers demand tribute from the nation,
While trashing the plan of God's creation.

Babies are martyrs to the need for shock
To awaken the people as to how some mock
The meaning of fairness to other men......
Can killing be stopped, though, even then?


The Most In Beauty

A breath-taking sunset, or a symphony of sound,
Are fainter in beauty than what can be found
In the smile of a child.

The highest of mountains, or the greenest of fields,
Fall short of the beauty which the human face yields
To the eyes of a child.

YOU are that child, in whose smile can be seen,
And whose eyes can perceive, you know what I mean,
The beauty of God!


The Big Question

Before our birth, for nine, long months,
We did not know the light of day,
Yet it was there!

What lies ahead as we depart this earth?
Is there still more life to live,
Or don't we care!

These are original works by Edward Robinson
All rights reserved

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